On Wanderlust

Every time I rinse and repeat, an angel dies.

I favor my right shoulder. I avoid jumping. I wear extra eyeliner. I use big words with inflection. I listen to gangster rap. I enjoy the sun and my freckles. I let my dog watch me pee. I’ve thrown out clothes and dishes in order to not wash them. I tell strangers a fake name. I tell my friends a fake life. I can be a lover. I can be a mother. I can be a dick.

For me, monotony and routine is a struggle but it’s not. Every day I do the same thing. The same coffee place. The same job. The same one liners. I dread irony and now I am flooded with it. It starts off as a small malaise. There is nothing new, nothing to create, nothing to look forward to. It builds into a bitchy cliche. Grumpy mommy. Unfulfilled human. Whine and cry about things that I can very well change.

From the unsettled discontent is where new potential buds. For the majority of people, they stomp on it with different things. Throwing a new craft on top of the burning, unsettled feeling. Change jobs. Eat more fat and sugar. Smoke more weed and drink more beer. Cry at night. Cry in the day. Take a pill. Move into the darkness and apathy. Start Crossfit. Quit Crossfit. Journal and give gratitude.

Fuck that.

The unsettled, the forces of nature pulling your body out of it’s inertia fueled wheel house, that is your spirit calling from galaxies away. Come, move, stop. Trying to get that feeling to quell. Trying to drown that feeling and cover it up and move it into a new medium feels wrong. If the feeling goes away, if it gets muted and shoveled under excuses and life hacks, how can it lead you? Maybe that anxiety is there to move the masses. Maybe it’s there because what is the same everyday might be what is wrong everyday.

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