Same Old Halfway House

Been travelling today, but I don't really feel like I've gone anywhere. Just shifted a little. However, it was a perfect day of moving. As the plane took off, I could see the terrain of the ocean floor, and then we banked and I could see the city shifting around beneath me. The bridge to work, downtown. The high-rise where his mother lives. I can't see his house, but I can estimate where it is. I wonder what he's doing right now. Maybe sitting outside reading the news. Maybe walking on the beach. Maybe back in bed, but I doubt it.

The plane rose above the thin layer of clouds; the sun cast its shadow on them. The shadow of a plane, with a rainbow colored ring surrounding it like a bulls-eye. Beautiful. I was lucky enough to get a row to myself, but I fell asleep fast enough to not be able to enjoy it. Except for the leg room.

I woke up with the embarrassment of realizing I'd been sleeping with my mouth open, but fuck it, I don't know any of these people. The bright white outside the window startled me for a second. The fresh snowfall rested softly on the peaks of the mountains. I don't think I've ever seen them with so much fresh snow. The occasional ribbon of road cut through them tentatively.

As the plane came down, I looked over the fields of undisturbed snow, sitting there like a sleeping cat, just waiting to be messed with. Irresistable. Mom and Dad were late, but not enough to make me wait or worry. And they brought the winter coat so I wouldn't freeze, but I've grown soft in the California sun and the cold air is still a shock to my lungs.

And that feeling returns, that feeling of being displaced. Because I know I don't belong here, but I don't know if I belong there, either. But there is no halfway house for people like me. I am neither here nor there; I belong nowhere to no one. It's odd. But here there are no responsibilities, no strings. Just the same old stuff.