Every year, as the first breath of fresh spring air hits my lungs, I feel an urge.
The things is, in my 19 springs of life, I have never been able to pin down exactly what that urge is. The urge to create? Possibly, as I feel my hands shake and tremble in their need-to-be-useful-ness. The urge to get out, to move? Very likely; the sun has never felt so good as it does that first day.
I feel like a plant, sitting in waiting all winter, who feels the first rays of sun on its leaves as an wandering man in the desert feels the life that water brings to his parched throat. The sun touches my skin, gentle, yet leaves it electrified and hot. This surcharge of energy boils up within me until I feel as if I need to.... I need to...
I never get farther than that. I feel a yearning, a craving, but I cannot know what. All I know is that spring is its source. And, until summer bursts in with its wave of heat and salty sweat, every day I will feel this calling to the sun. I will dread every moment spent inside, and suffer every moment out, as the yearning intensifies and mystifies me more.
What do you want me to do?
The confusion is physically painful, like a fist around my heart, getting tighter and tighter every single day. It clenches and forces my heart to race. My feet no longer stand still, they hop and skip in place, eager to go places, do things, do more.
So I will strive for more.