It is disorienting when your dream-filled nights resemble worlds you long for while your days plod ahead in a steady succession of unfulfilling moments. Not that these moments lack value. Not that these moments are not, by way of my being present within them, formative of my ongoing existence. It's just that this is the existence I chose, and now it confines me.
My movement is restricted by an array of fears and discomforts. My moods are restricted since the selfhood I created is not reflected back to me in any real or lasting ways in my present environment. This environment reflects and refracts another style of personhood. A way of life that is oriented around different everyday struggles.
I'm heplful. I'm mostly cheerful. As always, I am awkward and a little clumsy. But there does exist a place where I can steady myself, if only once an evening. That place is home. I am not there.