I’m dissatisfied with the way my life has turned out. To some extent I understand it’s my fault. It is my life after all. I brought myself here, to this place. There is no one else I can blame, no one I want to blame.
Where I am now is the sum of my choices.
People tell me to wait.
To be patient.
To take risks.
But I’ve done those things. All of them. At separate times and all at once. I’ve waited for the right moment. I’ve broken down in prayer. I’ve taken a few more risks than many sane people would be comfortable with; than most would consider prudent. I’ve taken the advice; done things the way I’ve been encouraged to.
And still I’m stuck. Just stuck. I’m sitting here and I know exactly how I got here, and that only makes it worse. I can sit here and see how every move I made, every decision, every choice brings me to this present and I don’t know how I could have changed it. I don’t know how I could have been more patient. I don’t know how I could have prayed harder. I don’t know which risks I missed.
I close my eyes, and it plays before me. A sad story that leaves me empty. The story I hadn’t meant to live.
And now, in this moment, I’m angry.
Or maybe I’m simply broken.
I look beyond my own life and choices. I look at those around me, at their choices. I see their successes, their triumphs. I see lives I wish I had, experiences I wish were mine. I begin to allow jealousy to fill my heart. It poisons me against myself, causing regret and dissatisfaction.
It makes me long for something else. Anything else. It makes me desperate. Reckless. Desirous of something perhaps not meant for me. It paralyzes me even as I wish to runaway. I am pulled in two directions, neither offering the solace I need.
I live without peace. I live in between. I live despite.
The trouble with being restless is I’m always looking out.
The trouble with being restless is I’m never satisfied.
The trouble with being restless is I want always to be somewhere else.
The trouble with being restless is I become reckless.
The trouble with being restless is that it is a prison of my own making.
The trouble with being restless is that it hinders me from living in the moment.
The trouble with being restless is that I am convinced there is always something more,
The trouble with being restless is I’m always searching, but never finding.
The trouble with being restless is that it becomes my greatest excuse.
The trouble with being restless is that I can’t see my way out.
There is no escape.
It only comes back.
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