There’s a field behind my house. When I got home tonight, under the cover of bleak clouded night sky, it was midnight. I walked to the middle of the field. Strange night-bird calls ushered me into that unholy unclean tussocky expanse.
I’ve never been so lost.
In the distance, droplets of light descend and ascend into the city skyline. Planes descending into airports.
But for me, there’s no Paris or Vienna or Ooty that I want to be tonight. I cannot summon up dreams of Roman holidays and Casablanca’s and Cairo’s hot nests.
I just want to sleep to the sound of that birdcall, strange and uncanny, out-of-place in the midnight eerie cloudy field, lit partially on the fringes by orange street lights.
I belong there in the middle of that expansive field. Lost and uncomfortable, but comfortable in that lostness.