On a home.

For the first time in a long time, my brain's moving too fast for me to catch everything. Used to be a time where I'd struggle for things to write about daily - nowadays, it's picking one idea to blog. Already I know there are three things I wanted to talk about that have since slipped my mind.

I spent the afternoon hanging out at the cafe, intending to get some work done on my ever-lengthening to-do list. And one by one, people filtered in to speak of ships and shoes and sealing wax. Hours went by with elbows resting on concrete tabletops as we talked of cats and travel and things that needed to be done, and I remembered what it was like to be a part of a community, to see faces I recognized and hear stories I'd heard before.

This was why I wanted to work where I work now. It's a nerve center for our quiet little neighborhood, a gathering place to hear tales fantastic and mundane, to whisper and chuckle, to shake hands and grin. I hear my name called from car windows as I walk down the street. It's a feeling I haven't had since TriBeCa.

I have a home again. And strangely, with that sensation comes the overwhelming hunger, the wanderlust banging at my sternum.

Perhaps not strangely. After all, it's easiest to start walking when you finally have both feet on the ground.