Going Home Again

I got off the airplane at Logan, spent a frustrating five minutes trying to buy a ticket for the T (The "CharlieTicket" is weird and deserves a rhetorical analysis: later), hopped on the shuttle, hopped on the blue line, and emerged twenty minutes later outside the Arlington stop on Boyleston. I was lost for a few minutes ("Huh. Never knew there were buildings outside this stop") then found my way to the Radisson on Stewart. It took me about 12 hours to get my city legs back. When I did, it was like I never left. Walking into traffic, swearing at tourists, avoiding people's eyes, keeping my bag held in just that right position. When I got on the T to go to the conference Friday morning, I forgot that I had to go "home" to Indiana again. On the way back to the Marriot from the Beer Works, I tried to take the train outbound, as though I was going to Westland Ave.
And now, in half an hour, I have to go back to Indiana. Back to my apartment in the middle of nowhere, where I have to drive, where I have to meet people's eyes and be friendly and I see the same damn people on the bus everyday. I forgot how the anonymity of the city energized me, made me feel independent, safe. When I'm alone in Lafayette, I feel lonely. When I'm alone in Boston, I feel free. The cars and the lights and the buildings and the noise push me. I suck from them their chi and live off the city's perpetual motion. Despite walking farther than I have in two years, doing more stairs than is probably healthy, I'm not in too much pain. I'm not exhausted--sleepy, yes, but that's from staying up to talk to Emma. I feel pretty damn good, like I can do anything. I kick ass.
I'm afraid that's going to disappear the instant I board the plane.
Which is why I'm hanging out in my room as long as possible. You can never go home again, but you can always return to Boston.