I’m here. A year of waiting and I’m here…home. It looks the same, and smells the same, only better than I could have imagined.
This is my 80th post.
The flight went well, although it is aggravating to try and travel in a wheelchair. Its almost impossible to move, and its cramped, choked, crowded in a plane. Suffocating, if you don’t like tight spaces. It was hard to move past all those people, all those eyes, going down the isle, so many people staring, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity, to alarm or pity, which I hate. Do not pity me, I want to say, pity those who have made me this way, who have made us sicker, because there is going to be a war (civilized, of course), and we shall win. Make no mistake, we plan on being the victor.
At the airport, a few of my friends came to meet me, which was real cool, and we all had lunch together, and I finally got my WhiteSpot Salmon Burger with kuma wedges (sweet potato fries!). Very exciting.
We’ve just been settling in and organizing all of our crap and stuff. Its hard. I’m so tired. Somehow I think a part of me thought that once I was home, I would be all better, that I would be cured miraculously by the waters of the Pacific, and the fresh air and friends. I wanted to believe that so much, that I could just walk off the plane and into the waiting arms of my old life. And that I’d be whole and happy, simply because I was home. I wish life were that easy. I wish I could wish myself better. I wish a lot of things could change, but if we could just snap our fingers and make it happen, life would be so dull, listless, there would be no life without the journey, no happiness without the pain and no present without the endless past. So is the way. So is the way.