Reoccuring restlessness

I am terrified of this reoccuring restlessness within me. Places and men .I seem to approach them like a gambling addict, certain that this will be the winning hand. Each new place, each new face: I am smitten with the novelty of it, certain that this city, this man will be different. This is the one that will soothe me, lull me into a semblance of peace and routine. And each time there is a creeping sense of restlessness that slides through my insides, tangling around my veins, ignored until its roots suddenly squeeze my heart with a sudden anxious desperation.

So I go for a run. I run until my breath is ragged, my knees are weak, and I am not sure I will be able to make it back home. And for an hour or two it subsides. In the brief lucidity I wonder how I got this way and whether, if the right place or man comes along, I’ll be able to stop running.