On the plane ride back to New Orleans tonight I nudged the radio volume a little lower than usual so as not to drown out my overactive analysis of the weekend's events. And I blinked harder than usual to keep the tears that kept threatening to explode from my eyes from bombarding my seatmates.

I feel similar to how I did the fall of my second year, when I walked around campus numb, always on the verge of crying, when I drove in desperation to the Borders on Ponce to find something to read that would take me away from my mind and its torments. I consumed Death Be Not Proud and it reminded that there are things that could be worse in life even if I didn't think they could feel any worse.

When I couldn't get out of bed and prayed to a God I didn't even believe in yet. When it felt like I was the same person I had always been, fumbling, feeling my life's snoglobe tossed around, wondering if it was me who was changing or everyone else around me or if anyone noticed my difference.

I feel replaced; the seat that was once always mine has been filled by someone new. I don't understand why I feel his words so much, that they hurt or mean so much, why they cripple me in his hug. Because after this long why does it hurt more now than ever before?

I know that I didn't dream the last 4 years of my life, but it's hard to remember what that reality felt like. Walking around campus was real, but out-of-phase. Now there's always something else in the eyes of old friends, the ever-persistant question behind the question 'how are you.'

The other parts of the weekend were happy. Overwhelmingly happy: the friends, the confidence, the smiles, the encouragement. Knowing the doors to walk through. Knowing the tv channels and the funny smell that always pervaded the hallway. Knowing exactly where to put the sink handle to get the right water temperature. Knowing the friends. Feeling known. Being perfectly, completely honest to the most important people to me. Being vulnerable in the safety net that is my friends' arms and words.

All of which makes it that much harder to be back here, only connected through thin wires susceptible to the distractions of life. And now, absorbing the enormity of the weekend's revelations, all I want is to be back on K's couch in the comfort of regular crust pizza and the familiarity of someone who knows everything. Thank you.

All of this, this selfish, petty emotional tumult, is overshadowed by The Kite Runner, one of the best books I've read in a while. My linguistic fingers are feeling feeble tonight though, so I'll leave those thoughts for next time.

Oh sleep, come take me away for the night.