Flux

Sometimes don't you feel like you don't sit easily in the world?
Sometimes, don't you feel itchy in your own skin? Like you want to run but you don't know where.
Or you want to fly but your wings are gone.

Saturday night in the city and I'm melancholy.
Staring out at the black shining streets below, reflecting street lights as lost rain drip drip drips down drainpipes.
And I realise that I am not ready for winter.
And I realise that the world is bigger than Melbourne.
And I realise that I need to feel the wind on my face and the horizon in my heart.

I need those things so bad it hurts.
I can almost feel the squeeze on my chest of the smallness of my tiny life.
Like a black hole, a singularity under so much pressure, it feels heavy too heavy.

Why are others so content and so happy to just be? To find routine and continue with routine day in day out with diligent and blinkered dedication to never changing?
Why must I always feel the need to move? To be on the move and moving or to feel death rotting out my body from the inside.
How is it that I can never allow myself to feel comfortable? To feel contented? To feel comfort?

It is like I am scared of sitting still.
Scared of sameness.
Scared of routine and order and familiarity.

And I wonder if this is naturally the human condition?
And if so, where roams my nomadic kin?
And do they care that my wings are gone and my heart is dry?

My eyes remain upon the horizon, that draw to someplace, that place, the wherever other not-here place. 
And I will not stare at the ground.