This Comfort

Some people don't care about where they are.

It bothers me if lights in a room are too florescent. I get uncomfortable if you can see every pore in my face. I don't like classrooms for the most part, and cement walls without windows scare me. I hate having to stay quiet in libraries, but I love not talking and being alone for hours on end. I need noise. I like fireplaces and candles. I like the smell of cooking and the atmosphere around a well-set table. In order to get anything accomplished, I need to be in an environment I've deemed comforting.

An hour into today, I drove half an hour away with seventeen of the most comforting people I've ever met. We parked near a huge field in the middle of the dark, away from the light pollution of Lancaster city and forgot about nine a.m. classes. We galavanted across an unkempt field with blankets and excitement, plopped ourselves into a pile, and watched what some were saying was the largest visible meteor shower of our lives.

I sat there amongst gentle, caring people, those who understand what's really important. To see a meteor streak across the outskirts of Earth- leaving an imprint of red, blue, and gold in the mind's eye- leaves one with a feeling of comfort. How comforting to observe a tear across the blackness we cannot understand because we were built to exist here, on an upside-down orb and held in by gravity- at home no matter what.