I don’t know; maybe I’m just not the type to sit still and be happy where I am.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve always had an itch to be moving. Doing, going – something, anything.
I’m always planning for the next thing. I worry about tomorrow. I strategize seven moves ahead, and try to see ten, just in case. I’m also always braced for the next impact, waiting for the next shoe to drop, setting my shoulders for more weight.
I used to joke all the time about being a realist rather than a cynic, because that’s what a cynic does. But I really don’t feel like a cynic, either. I don’t think I necessarily assume the worst about people. I just stay brutally neutral and try to evaluate all of the potentials.
My default mental state is one of preparation, not one of rest. Which is fine, until the constant state of readiness starts wearing me down and grinding at my peace of mind. Which is where I am now. I’m caught between wanting to stay exactly where I am and wanting to move the fuck on already.
Someday, I’m going to find a balance between what I want and what I have: where I’m going and where I’ve been: who I am and who I want to be.
Someday. Just not today.