ghost story

It is 11:15pm here. It is 5:15pm there. Ireland is beautiful, damp, and green, just like I’ve read. Home is far away, yet being here has made me reevaluate where home is. I feel like a ghost here.

I feel like a specter that has been whisked off by a strong wind. I feel transient, transparent, and unsubstantial. Ireland is beautiful, but I miss Chicago. I felt grounded and solid in Chicago. I suppose I felt too solid there, too comfortable, too settled and stagnant. Ireland will cure that. It has already begun.

From the grumpy airport processing officer who eventually laughed at my terrible jokes to the slew of confused international students to the cheerful University Representative, I felt off my game. Maybe it was the airline food. Maybe it was the 8+ hour-long flight. Maybe it was the concept of leaving home for an extended period of time finally sinking in. It is 11:30pm here, and after making a fairly uneventful trip to the grocery shop I have no idea what to do with myself.

I have no phone, no internet, no friends, and no idea where to procure any of these things. I have an orange bedroom and mixed feelings. I have a massive campus to maneuver and an even bigger country to explore. I have the ability to gain substance through experience, just as I have in Chicago. For tonight, I am a ghost in Ireland.