Restless

Restless. That is how I feel. Even if my entire environment is the quietest, most serene place and almost demanding its inhabitants to relax, my mind wanders. There is a storm in my brain, a tormenting tornado throwing everything upside down in order to find stimuli. To not be stimulated is to not be alive. I believe this always bubbling consciousness showed me life’s fullest potential. I could never sit back and passively watch my life happen right in front of me, without me having an active part in it. I could never copy the life of the people around me and allow myself to jump in the treadmill of routine, already roughly knowing what non-surprises the civilized existence has in store for me.

I am comfortable with being uncomfortable.

I need excitement, weirdness, madness, emotions, screams, shocks and a constant natural high. I need to laugh until my body is only able to pour out weird noises, to cry because I feel the pain of missing the parts of the world where I am not. I need to feel touched by kindness of people I don’t know and to feel my heart beat in my throat because of the threats of the wicked. To feel. Boredom is the loop of a revolver slowly pushed into my mouth, the trigger pulled by indifference.

Restlessness gave me life. Restlessness takes my life. I am always running. Running to places I have never been, running to activities I never did before, until everything looks and feels the same and I need to climb the ladder another step in order to be stimulated. I can see the end of the ladder; I can’t pump up the volume much more as the music of my life is already blasting out of the speakers. I am sprinting to the finish, which will be represented by peace of mind… but I know that is my biggest fear, because peace of mind is only temporary and what next? What next if there’s nothing next?

It seems like Nirvana, the feeling of being at the right place and doing exactly what you want to do. I have been to many ‘right places’ before, many spots on Earth where I feel infinitely happy... almost all of them are.

But I wait until the dark clouds come in… that strong hand pushing me in the back and abruptly informing me that I have to leave because I saw it all here, I stored this place in my mind and brain-activity will only continue with the pleasure of newness.

I imagine I will stop moving around when I find my Nirvana, that one blissful home where I just want to stay. But at the same time I realize my Nirvana lies in the act of travelling and never-ending change. Building up nothing and therefore building up experiences, which is everything that matters. I drink a nauseating cocktail of clumsy satisfaction and cynic despair about this perceived destiny. My risk is seeing a hundred balls lying down and while trying to pick up every single one of them dropping them all on the floor. Wisdom lies in grabbing no more than two balls at the time, one in every hand and picking up a new ball when one of those is leaking… which happens pretty fast as the quality is never long-lasting.

This wanting of limitless options has its limits, as some life decisions are long-lasting. If I am going to be the parent that sees her kid as a ball that’s going to leak soon, I should probably hold on to my birth control pills. But even that is too much commitment… taking a pill every day at the same time! Life has daily surprises for me that make this kind of consistency impossible. Still, nine months pregnancy seems like an interesting experience (just the result seems rather unappealing as it's definite).

I am cursed, and it's beautiful.

I wonder why I couldn’t just be a satisfied house mother that could get eternal happiness out of her children’s proximity, mastering a new potato stew recipe and watching a late night soap opera, and at the same time I am interminably grateful I am not. Even not being what I don’t want to be makes me restless, as that is a state of being yet unknown to me. Cogito ergo sum; I think, therefore I am. Or therefore I am not, I used to be or could be one day.

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