Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Anywhere But Here?

I feel like I've lived my whole life on the run, or on the brink of running. When I pack a bag, I pack everything I might need for life in transit. Unsettled; that's me. For no apparent reason, I'm always prepared for leaving, for a quick and easy escape.

Sure, I may have felt the need to escape from my life before, when the weight of existence comes down with crushing force, when I feel like a tiger, or a bird trapped in a cage, pacing back and forth behind bars. But I never noticed it as being so; agitation was something I carried around with me in my back pocket, like the things I carry in my backpack that are probably not necessary to have on a day to day basis. This is the first time I've looked it at with a modicum of self awareness that's made me worry about my mental state. After all, I must admit that I don't have a particularly trying life. Certainly one that I don't have to run from, though it could use some changes. So why the flightyness? What is in me that cannot stand the thought of being settled? Why is it that nowhere truly feels like home - safe and secure and permanent? What perversion plagues me? What monsters knock in my nightmares? And why is it that I can not answer those questions? 

But to some extent, the realisation that I always stand ready to leave has helped bring to light the realisation that many aspects of my life, heretofore empty, are because of that. What relationship - romantic or platonic - can stand when one person always has one foot out the door? And what creativity is fruitful when the mind is pillaging itself? And how can anything once started ever be finished if you're constantly throwing yourself from project to project because it gives the illusion of movement? 

Perhaps, just perhaps, I'm not meant to stay in one place. 

That, or I have not yet found the right place. 

So I'll keep my bag packed and hope. Because illusion or mental illness, somehow here doesn't feel like the right kind of here for me.

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