another week gone by, a friday evening i should be relaxing into. and instead, i find myself restless. not an unusual state for me – i’m frequently itchy, edgy for something new. but when i get that bug, man, it’s bad. i’m ready to crawl out of my skin. the craving for otherness is intense – i want to be something other, someplace other, anyplace other than here. i want to eat up music and books and culture, shovel them in with both hands. sate myself on experience. the hunger goes so deep i can feel my belly touching my spine.

i want to take off. start running and feel my lungs filling on the cold sharp air, my legs burning, run til exhaustion pulls me back to earth. run so i don’t want to run any more. my feet tingle with the anticipation.

this dissatisfaction is a hollowness i never seem to fill. my boy, my home, my life – i love them all, but nothing cures me of this restlessness. i can never predict the trigger. i’ll be listening to a new song, or reading a poem, only to find myself racing through to the end, skipping ahead in search of the next new thing, not pausing long enough to enjoy what’s before me – only hoping for something better around the corner. and that twitchiness settles into my spine. the fever flushes, making me hot and bothered and irritable with the general state of everything. dreams flood my brain, dreams of what i imagine i must be missing out on, places and things i’m suddenly desperate for because i *know* they must be better than where i am right now, and damn it, i’m missing out. dreams so real i can taste them.

the problem is, i can’t keep running forever. there is always another corner i can’t see round. nothing fills the space, because i’m constantly digging the hole. missing the here and now to chase an insubstantial dream only makes it that much deeper, and if i just tried a little harder to remain present, maybe the here and now would be enough. my boy, my home, my life should be enough for anyone. they should be enough for me.

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