Restless

Restless

The word seems innocent enough, rest-less, so simple, almost puerile, that is if one didn’t know the feeling. If they didn’t the word would be nice, but the feeling of restlessness is so very far from innocent. The indecision, the pointless agitation, the endless boredom, the i-want-to-do-this, the i-should-have-done that’s, the i-don’t-know-what-to-do’s, it’s all so frustrating, it’s mindless and endless, there is no rest. The feeling is like a disease, one that is not contagious, it’s a disease you suffer alone, and the lonely indescribable suffering is in itself restless.

It’s like a cloud, a cloud raining only on your head, moving when you do, the rain itself is indecisive, the pitter-patter, the tap-tap-tap, the drip-drip-splat. It can’t make up its mind. The feeling is deadening, focused, intense and all consuming, it is in itself restless.

When you feel how I feel, restless, you see all things and nothing, you want all things and nothing, you are bored, nothing holds you sway, especially what you think you want, you don’t do what you know you should do, in short you are denied rest, rest in and from everything.

Rest dances, rest taunts, rest is always inches, inches and miles away. To the restless, rest is truth, rest is a myth, rest is legend, told over and over and over to the restless, to the restless, it is smoke, forever slipping between their fingers. I am restless.