Catullus wrote that the best part of traveling was the act of coming home. Of rounding the corner and seeing your home with the front door wreathed and the curtains drawn. The chance to get back into your own bed- to peel your sheets back and squeeze yourself into the comfort and smell of your own room.
My feet hang off the edge of my bed, which I remembered as being a lot taller. Catullus didn’t take that in account, that when you’re away from home for a long time your world enlarges. It gets harder to duck your head below door frames and force yourself into rooms. You want to open windows and doors, hang mirrors so it seems bigger, but more than anything you want to just leave again.
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