What is this sense of restlessness, a companion elbowing me on the bus to nowhere in particular? This basic human discontent with whatever we have, some archaic dusty discoverer’s gene, poking its crusty head out between demands and an uncertain future? Is it a product of attaining a certain age, feeling as though time is running out and I’d better fulfill all dreams and expectations so as to die free from regret?
My nemesis does not dog me daily, or should I say awareness of it surfaces only often enough to cause me to wonder if I will ever be satiated by anything, long-term. Why is it satisfaction seems too fleeting – the perfect sauce, a climax of any sort, the last streaks of sunset, a toddler’s grin, the egrets on their dusky flight over our house … Back, then – into the throes of longing. Perhaps it’s my poet’s heart, my ranging intellect; a sense of needing to contribute to the betterment of the world, if such a thing is possible; my inability to vegetate while yearning to sink my roots into fertile ground. Maybe it’s the nature of life on earth – the panther on the prowl, the hawk on the wing, the wind bristling the porcupine’s quills or a cascading mountain stream. Since we have removed ourselves from the wanderings of the hunter-gatherer, since we have domesticated our ‘masses, yearning to be free” …
And yet reaching back into my early adulthood finds me holding the same hand of cards – always a joker cackling at me from the middle …
image: copycateffect.blogspot.com
quote: Emma Lazarus
