When I am still, I wither.
I’ve long known this, but it doesn’t take me long to forget it, either.
I look at people that can be still for long periods of time with a combination of fascination, respect, and pity. Why is it that I feel the most alive while on the road, when leaving, while in the between?
Put another, and maybe more honest, way, I have commitment issues. I so cherish the feeling of leaving that I cannot tell if it's grown into an addiction. As I age, I recognize the material benefits of...whatever's the opposite of this. Stability is half the rent, emotional support, breakfast in the mornings. It's a warm house, a roof over my head. It's not having to get up every 5 hours to stoke the fire.
But there's something lost, too. There's no more surprise, no more wonder. It's convincing yourself you know something.
But somewhere deep in my brain, I'm uncomfortable with convincing myself I know anything, because it's always an illusion.