Posted on July 31, 2009 - by Rasham
“MY HOME IS IN MY HEAD”- Bob Marley
It is a beautiful morning; through the soft blue tint of the car window the sun warms my face, but the morning does not feel so fresh and new: it reeks of unpleasantness and distaste. I slept well: well enough. It’s as though the torture of complacency has me alive with no relief, my thoughts prompt me to engage in action even when all the world is dreaming. I am so tired, so stretched, frantic and in need…but of what? On the train I feel a sense of calm, like the sounds of the rails are tearing me from my worry and guilt. I relax my neck to rest my head upon the cushion and smile as I experience a high from the only medicine known to cure my ridiculous disease: constant erratic motion.
Like a child who quiets when subjected to the moaning vibrations of an automobile in motion my stifled cries abate with forward momentum. I have always wanted to stay still, to be at peace in a quiet place for longer than time could measure: but the only peace I am granted is in the promise of another ride, another move, another obstacle, another challenge, another life. So I pack my things and fewer things than before realizing that things hinder my progression, and I move. To where? I haven’t any idea. All I know is I have got to keep discovering; I have to relive that exciting ‘first’ over and over again.
Maybe I’ve got it all wrong: maybe my growth is hallowed by an unwillingness to surrender to commitment, by the fact that my life allows for no finite definition of the concept ‘home’: home is a place I visit in my head. 
For most of us it is so, though our environment (because of its tangibility) becomes a reflection of our understanding of the concept of home, that we are intensely motivated and spirited regarding movement and shifts in temporal surroundings. The energy of progressive motion is enticing: we take vacations, we like going places, new and ones revisited. We find all sorts of ways to move: on two wheels, on a stick, a bike, a boat, a kite: we like moving, even though we usually go right back ‘home’. And we love that which moves: the wind, the waves, the birds in the sky: all sources of fascination and awe. Perhaps we admire that which is a grand manifestation of our cellular occurrences: that we admire motion because microscopically, we are all constantly experiencing some form of movement and change. When we are stuck, or grounded, or planted firmly in an environment of our own making, like two repelling charges our micro motion and frozen lifestyle become, and we flee into action, on a treadmill at the gym or a Harley on the open road. Some of us lack anchor, and like our micro selves we are constantly moving, never tied or restrained by contract or commitment: we are charged by a force as mysterious as the color of energy, and move in accordance with our inner motives which prompt us to settle only temporarily, and leave before the sun is high in the sky so that we may witness it decline into its evening grave. So I move, again, and panic is replaced by the knowledge that I am merely acting in a manner which is honest to myself and indicative of the history of mankind- some of us are like the early settlers of the western world who chased the sun in their travels towards longer, brighter days: moving forward though not necessarily with an end in mind; bearers of a precious curiosity which guides and encourages the time traveler’s soul.