I feel restless.
I hate this feeling, this sense of urgency, of energy undirected that bubbles and bursts inside. I looked around my room today at a couple hundred books, some unread, and spurned them all. Nothing piqued my interest. Not the old, familiar books I know and love, or the new, the strange and unknown books I’ve bought.
This restlessness, this energy that plagues me is best dispersed by writing. I know this, and I’ve used it well before, but sometimes even that isn’t enough. And this day, I had nowhere to diffuse the growing creative bomb, no story to pour it into, no real motivation to even try. I decided to go to a secondhand bookstore, to rummage around old shelves, and even older books, to try and find those forgotten gems; books I’d read in high school, books I never quite got around to buying, or books I’d long heard about but never picked up.
I crawled around the floor, shuffling across the bottom shelves in squinty-eyed urgency. Forgetting to blink, straining past the burning sensation – and still, the energy refused to dissipate. Sometimes it’s more than just the need to write, or to read something that connects to a place deep inside, that salves the burn. If only for a few hours, or a day. It reflects a greater dissatisfaction I have with my life, my job, where I am, and where I need to be.
I often read it characterised as ‘itchy feet.’