Sweet Night Air

I have discovered a wonderful place to think: the windowsill of my borrowed bedroom. There is no screen, since there are very few biting bugs, and the window itself and the roof outside are constructed in such a way that I can easily lift myself up to sit curled up on it, looking out over the front yard; the view is quite nice and it’s so peaceful out here, especially after dark has fallen. And I have come to realize that I want to have more experiences like this.

I want to sit on rooftops and look at the stars. I want to run until I can’t run anymore and collapse in a field. I want to let songs rip their way out of my throat and fill the empty air, loud and beautiful. I want to wander naked at night. I want to smell the wind at night and let it carry me away. I want to talk with a stranger in the park for hours. I want to do a lot of things – experience life so vividly, to release this restlessness that always seems to be hovering beneath my skin. Sometimes the only thing I can do for it is run until I can’t go any farther and scream into the sky. I realize, I like feeling restless, sometimes; it’s like a sweet, beautiful ache that never quite goes away. And I realize why I feel the need to write.

Writing is another cure for the restlessness. It’s an endless urge that never really fades. I feel the need to validate my existence, to share my experiences, my feelings. Somehow, nothing is quite real until it has been put into words. I feel, sometimes, that in trying to slake my restlessness, that I have inadvertently stumbled across some nameless deeper meaning to life, and I am helpless to do anything until I have tried to let others grasp it as well. I do not write, as I have always supposed, out of a desire not to be forgotten – but out of a desire not to be alone.