I get restless when I sit still for too long.
I used to get yelled at for it. My teachers would tell me to stop clicking my pen, stop swinging my feet in my squeaky chair, and stop braiding my friend’s hair to keep my jumping fingers occupied.
I got better at masking it as I grew up, choosing less disruptive ways to let my excess energy present itself.
I’m always moving, but it’s a quiet agitation now. My fingers tap a pattern into the denim on my thighs; my heel jumps soundlessly in time to the song stuck in my head.
I’m bad at dealing with silence. I do not dread the lull in a conversation, but I always keep it at bay. I’m always talking more, always adding another thought, changing the subject, injecting meaningless fun facts into the quiet that threatens the chaotic peacefulness full of sound and motion that I have curated.
I can’t sleep in the quiet, and it takes me hours to convince my butterfly hands, still trembling with life, that I am tired.
The one surprising remedy I have found for my restless spirit is my car. The spool of thread that winds tighter and tighter with each still moment unwinds completely while I’m driving. My music is loud, and my hands have a rhythm to follow as they venture along the steering wheel.
The valleys of my midwest hometown lose their insipidity and flow around me with new life and allure.
I take the long way home. I take the scenic route to church, and I drive in circles on the way to school.
The world is easier to look at through my rearview mirror. It’s easier to pretend that my life is a vibrant adventure when it’s golden hour on Hall Street, and I’m moving fast through my life.
As my tires spin in circles through my universe, the urge to leave, to run and dance and move, the urge to shout my name until I know I won’t be forgotten, is quelled. I’m afraid sometimes that I’ll never live enough.
There’s too much to do, too many places to visit, too many languages to learn, too many people to meet, books to read, and gods to worship.
I can’t do any of it. Or, at least, I can’t do nearly as much as I want. But, when I’m driving, no matter my destination, I’m on my way to doing some of it. When landscapes blur through my windshield, I can let my hands still, let my fingers stop their tapping, and my knees stop their bouncing.
I can soften the sharp edges of some abstract, anxious need to escape. Sand down the glass that cuts me deep and whispers to run away and join the circus just to have a new view and strangers to tell my stories.
When I’m driving, I can be on my way anywhere. Alone or with someone in my passenger seat, going home or toward some blurry future, I’d like to be on my way forever.
