I'm sitting in a cup chair, cinnamon cider seeping out of my bloodstream, Silvio Rodriguez singing sweet and bitter notes from my laptop speakers, and whispers of Burning Man hiss across my feelings.
So many feelings. Old, fermented, Calvados feelings from last year that came running when they heard their names called in the subtext of the lecture hall. New, raw, fruit smoothie feelings that are chunky in my throat, catching as I try to process them. I'm reeling from experiences as subtle as a moment of eye contact or as overwhelming as a K-hole while the man burned. I can't dissect their importance because they're in a ball of Burning Man that bursts my heart. It's mostly wonder, but some of it isn't happy and some of it hurts. The hurt isn't good or bad, it's just pain, and most of it is recycled. The joy of connection, the guilt of unwanted intimacy, the confusion of lies.
I feel alone. It feels empty and full. Colors dance in my memory with the smell of nothing. My eyes feel heavy but resist the fall. Dull pressure across my mind.
Decompression. The word beats with my heart. A mystery cure that I imagine everyone else has tasted, but I am ineligible, as I arrived home on the day that school started.
I will take care of myself somehow.
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