the beast

I have a secret. A big one. Are you ready to hear it?

No--seriously.

Yes?

Yes.

Ok.

Perfect.

I am bored. Like, always. Restless is maybe a better word. I grow restless very easily.

Very easily.

It always starts out promising. I always start out Loving...but then? But then I get restless. Each time, I try to convince myself that this is It; this is the thing that I won't get bored of, that won't make me restless. But then some time passes, I settle in...and it happens. Again. And the funny thing is is that I am that person who loves and thrives on routine, who absolutely needs it. So I shouldn't be getting so restless all the time--I should love settling in. But I don't.

I joke sometimes that I'll always be a gypsy--moving from thing to thing, job to job, place to place forever. I joke about it because that is what I worry it will always be like.

But is it a joke? Or, more importantly, should it be?

The more I see and do and feel, the less certain I grow. Of anything. I am craving a something, a something...more. But I don't know what. Maybe that's what its supposed to be; maybe I'm supposed to always be curious; maybe I'm supposed to always be restless, to always be craving. Maybe its about the search--or, as our friend Miley Cyrus sings, the climb ;)

But then there's that book, my Favourite book (capital "F"): The Beast in the Jungle, Henry James. Its a short story, actually (surprised? we all know me reading a full-out novel is not-so-likely). Anyways, its about a man who spends his whole life living in the shadow of his own secret--namely, that he will endure some great experience that will come to define both he and his life, and his life is and will continue to be meaningless until he endures said experience (sound complicated? In a post-modern way, it kind of is :) You can read more about it here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beast_in_the_Jungle, though I encourage you to read the story itself).

So. Am I restless because I should be? Or is my restlessness keeping me from seeing and knowing and appreciating all that is already in front of me? Am I John Marcher or am I May Bertram? I don't know. And I don't know what not knowing means.

But that's ok.

I think.