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i love a girl

she loves the sunset

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something isn't here. i've never known exactly what but this has been lodged in my subconcious since birth. i feel its absence more tangibly than anything else, more than fear or love. i guess it would be an obsession if i had any idea what it was.

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for some reason, the only methods that i use to look for it are walking and driving. i know it's not going to be anywhere I go to look for it, but the restlessness builds up in the marrow of my bones and the unused parts of my brain until i have to leave, have to move, wherever, at three miles an hour or seventy, it doesn't matter. it's like i'm a child again, when my parents said they sometimes had to swaddle me in a car in the middle of the night because only the hum of the highway beneath me would stop my screaming.

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sometimes i wonder if i do this because it's too sharp and cold to think about, the fact that i need something that i can't find, that doesn't seem to exist at all. when i'm still, i hate the feel of it pressing up against my breastbone, its purposelessness suffocating. sometimes this compulsion seems too much like a metaphor for my life, the fact that i seem to equate motion with progress. and all this is very interesting and kind of sad to think about, but it doesn't change much. when the analyzing is over i still leave, walk aimlessly, the restlessness murmuring in my ear. my most faithful companion.

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it's so much worse at night. something about nightime has always seemed deeply unnatural to me. the fact that we all shut down, become motionless and mute, have to recharge ourselves like machinery. we're not allowed to move in the dark, and we know it too. and it's then that i need it the most, and then that it's the hardest to do. people want to know where i'm going, what i'm doing, and i can't say that i have to leave because everything i'm looking at is stupid, so i'm going to go nowhere instead. people expect destinations. i feel like i always have to make ones up to pacify them. i have a purpose. no, really.

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i secretly believe that everyone else feels it too, they're just better at tamping it down, or maybe better at coming up with fictional destinations in a pinch. we can't talk about it, though. it's one of those things that only becomes more terrifying when you admit to it.

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it is a hard thing to deny someone something important and let them feel the hole all their life. i imagine it feels the same, except worse, to never have had a mother or to know that you will die young. who among us doesn't carry a hole with them? look at us. driven from the garden. barred by fire.

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i can't think of what else to do, but circle whatever patch of earth i happen to be on at the time. i guess there are worse addictions. at least this one seems to improve my sense of direction.