What is this sense of restlessness, a companion elbowing me on the bus to nowhere in particular; a dynamism like some archaic 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? Or is it more fundamental to the human condition?
Awareness of a state of mild agitation surfaces only often enough to cause me to wonder if fulfillment is sustainable. Will satisfaction always seem fleeting; the perfect sauce, the last streaks of sunset with the arching slap of a whale’s tail, egrets on their dusky flight over our house, a toddler’s grin? Back, then, into the throes of longing.
Perhaps variability is the nature of all life on earth; the panther on the prowl, hawk on the wing, wind bristling a porcupine’s quills or the cascade of a mountain stream. Far removed from the vast wandering of the hunter-gatherer, restless feet become rambling mind as residual instinct casts a beacon to all life, awaiting its response.