The air has never been so still.

Tonight I sat outside...intending on doing some thinking while looking at the trees in the rapidly dimming light. As I cleared my mind, I realized how perfectly -nothing- the atmosphere seemed. Some might call the stillness something like peace, or serenity, but I found it more like death. Uncomfortable. Stagnant. I was driven quite quickly back inside with a heavy feeling suddenly gripping my heart.

I am addicted to movement.

Bobbing my head to music, turning on lights in the blackness and wearing the darkest of shades in the sun, I am rarely satisfied with what is and eternally chasing something that very likely isn't simply elusive, but may well be nonexistant. When my nerves are sanded down smooth, I am bored. When they are on edge, I am jumpy and miserable. Where is contentment? Is there even such a thing, aside from the rare snatches that temporarily make life worth living that come upon me now and then....usually after sex, dancing, or particularly interesting time spent with someone I haven't yet grown bored with?

I often get the urge to take a tire iron to a mailbox or a window while screaming like a banshee. The intensity I carry inside of me is malignant, I fear, taking my mind and heart to darker and darker places as the years pass. No longer can I successfully pass for sane. No longer can I carry on polite conversation without wanting to beat the hell out of the boring fuck in front of me. I want to run. To fly. I want to escape this treadmill called life. Not via body bag, mind you, even though I am aware that is my destiny (as it is for us all), but to step off the hamster-wheel and run full-tilt through a more interesting landscape than I have been looking at for so long now. Run till my lungs burst. Till I lay down throbbing with exhaustion and watch the sky move, thinking "how beautiful!"

As someone addicted to movement, I am somewhat dazed from emerging from my cell. A comfortable cell with many amneties, but a cell nonetheless. I don't quite know what to do with my mind, my heart, or my self these days. I am clinging to the small word "hope" with clenched fists and teeth grinding. I am frightened and unsure. No wiser today than I was at 17, for wisdom can find nowhere to take root inside me...my heart contains no substance, just a black hole of swiftly shifting wind. What I crave with a constant ferver that pales heroin addiction often dooms me. Movement.

Right now, I have to beleive there is something out there waiting for me. Something that will cause the tornado in my head to move with a better rhythm, to daze and mesmerize like the purest lsd, and spin prisms of light containing every gorgeous color in the world. I call that something true happiness, and what fashion or form it may take when I find it I can't pretend to know. The day I stop believing that I will find it, I will suddenly be old. I will wither. I will die of a broken spirit.

But not today.
I am not dead yet.
I still choose to believe....