There are some who seem to me to be content with very little; content to have jobs that require their days and then content to pass their evenings and nights in whims of entertainment, modest friendships, mediocre romance or religion. They don't hope for much, content to walk. I like to walk. But I want wings to turn my stride into flight from time to time. I want passionate oblivion to come crashing into what's happening right now; for it to get all tangled up, perpetually. I want storms to always ruffle my feathers while the wind unfurls my wings.
My restlessness is not discontent. I do not feel condemned by restlessness but compelled by it. I am not thirsty in order that I may writhe in my thirst but so that I will seek out a drink. My soul goes to the desert because there are elements of nourishment there, not because it is barren.
Yet in the very barrenness lies that nourishment. And the nourishment is space. The space to stretch out all my limbs, to open my lungs, and to spread my questions freely and expansively -- nakedly even -- until they dry out and crack like the lips that uttered them, leaving me sore and finally silent enough to escape myself, unhurried and unharassed enough to collapse into something that is something like peace.
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