Untitled Prose Poem
It's a change in the weather, a new itchiness to my skin. My body is certain, knows in its bones, that it is time to go. This doesn't make any sense - this time was permanent, the beginning of my stationary lifestyle. I bought a house, registered to vote. I didn't plan to leave.
The mother of wanderlust is dissatisfaction. There's nothing wrong but there's something missing - but there's always something missing. And I'm not going to find it somewhere new. I should stop roving, be still and look inside myself. If I knew what I wanted from life I could finally settle down.
This realization comes too late, I'm sick of this place. My eyes are playing tricks, making me think I see what I want over the horizon. Clarity. Purpose. The singular truth. I could get there if I just -