I am too many ideas, and I can't sit still long enough to see them collected wholly before me.
I think I'm meant to be nomadic. The profundity of change and growth drives me; emerging fresh from instances of stress and fear that have compressed into themselves over time - until the pressure caused an emotional explosion - is what inspires me.
Like long waves, these cycles last months and sometimes years, until a point is reached when nothing new can be learned both pragmatically and emotionally. The environment becomes stale. The parameters have produced most configurations of obstacles and conflicts. You saved that money. You dealt with the broken appliances. You said hello and goodbye to friends. You've stabilized obscure or painful memories. You ran that long race. You spoke to that person you were dreading. You've done all the growth you can in the current state.
And then I feel discontent with restless-leg syndrome spreading from the calves into all of my body's nerves. Sitting, standing, running, but still waiting in metaxy until the break of the wave comes for me, or I induce it out of impatience. I will force the change to grow more. Tiny water drops will spray across the landscape as the wave crashes, decorating the path to the next.
