Time Was Merely A Suggestion This Week.

There is a particular glamour to temporary disorientation. 

To live out of a carry-on. To bend with time, rather than try to manage it. 

Or so I am convincing myself, despite still being exhausted and back in my own time zone. 

I flew across the country this past week (and a bit of an ocean) for a blink-and-you-miss-it visit. 

Day One: Airports and airplane windows. And shitty wifi at cruising altitude.

Day Two: Warm air. Salt on the skin. Frizz in the hair. Familiar strangers.

Day Three: Back through time zones like perfume through a room.

Morning happened at night. Coffee felt like a suggestion. And my watch became decorative.

But cocktails were warm and sweet...

The.cobblestoned streets were lit I with Christmas spice and color.

And not once did I surrender my black sweater style, chunky frames, and bright lipstick to the 82 degreee weather.

I left as I arrived. 

Everything efficiently folded into bags inside my carry-on. And a Starbucks in my hand.

I got maybe four hours of sleep most nights this week. And then crashed hard into a long sleep every night since then.

We're taught (or rather, I feel obligated) to keep such tight custody of time. To account for minutes the way one tracks receipts To treat rest as a luxury and lateness as a failure. 

But occasionally it is exquisite to forget.

Just exist in movement. In jet streams. In humidity. 

A soft confusion of arrival and departure.

I've decided that if I don't know what time it is... I'm probably exactly where I should be.