I have a problem with staying still. As far as I know, it's always been this way. My mom describes me as an “imaginative” toddler, says I've always kept myself busy, even when I was alone. What I remember from my adolescent years is constant creative pursuits: notebooks full of writing and collages, cooking show recipe remakes, months of footage on my dad's old school camcorder spliced into movies. I even had a "band" at one point (and I am not musically inclined). I know that by middle school, I had submerged myself in friends and activities so that all hours of my day were full, some that were normal for kids my age like basketball or yearbook club or after-school bowling—and some that absolutely weren’t, but we won’t go into that. Basically, I'd try anything. And no matter what it was, I’d come home kicking and screaming at the end of the night wishing that sleep wasn’t necessary. I had an insidious fear of missing out on something. (Today they call it FOMO, which I find both hilarious and comforting, but back then, I think they'd just call it driving my parents mad.)

I remember my mom’s frustration as I was growing up: “All you do is go go go. Can’t you just relax? You don’t always have to be doing something.” She still says it to me now, though she's mostly used to it (or just unaffected). And when I’d beg my dad to drop me off somewhere or drive me around (because I didn’t take no for an answer…), he’d tell me I had “tunnel vision,” that when I got something in my head, there was no stopping me. He’s still right.

Now, my restlessness is my own problem. My insatiable urge to up and go at all times, paired with exhaustion that I can’t ever seem to shake from my constant motion, has me on a never-ending carousel ride in which I’m doing laps around the actual thing, not just sitting there on the ponies. Rest, my body tells me. Relax today. But I fight it to the death, until I’m pouring from an empty glass and full of resentment—mostly at myself for my lack of everlasting energy and unrealistic expectations. Eventually, I throw my hands up, jump wildly from the ride, and bail on all responsibilities with total self-justification (you know, stop answering my phone, take off work, quit jobs entirely, run away to another country…).

One of my best friends tells me it’s admirable, that my running isn’t frivolous or reckless, that it just means “you won’t ever let yourself stay stuck for too long.” My other best friend describes the way that I tend to be all in or all out of people’s lives as, “just the way Lizz is”—slightly less kindly, but accepting nonetheless. And though I try to be less flaky and chaotic, I find myself in the same cycle over and over again. I know no other way. Balance feels like some far away land that, though it’s on the bucket list and everything, isn’t somewhere I’d spend my savings on, yaknow?

Maybe this is why I feel so drawn to cities. Even the little one I’m from (York, Pennsylvania—mostly known for the crime rate and heroin epidemic that’s growing simultaneously alongside attempts at gentrification) fills my wandering spirit more than the back road farmhouses that I grew up around. Some people find peace in the solitude of forests or countrysides, miles away from a measly gas station. But my serenity feels closest in alleyways and street blocks full of grafitti and signs in different languages, amidst thousands of strangers and shuffling and cross-the-street beeping, towering buildings hugging us close.

My original post-college-graduation plan was to move straight to New York, write and work in a restaurant or bookstore, and go broke real quick in some sort of tin can apartment in Brooklyn. That might sound rough to you, but to me that sounds like heaven. I thrive in the hustle, and New York doesn't seem to take quit for an answer.I didn’t end up doing that though (I’m not quite sure why…), but each time I run to the city, I still get that feeling like some day, some day this will be home.

I’ve got tunnel vision and Brooklyn’s at the end of it. If I know anything about myself, though, its that my mind changes like panels on a slot machine, some greedy-ass rich dude pulling the lever. I have one too many visions for my life, mostly all of them conflicting, and I have learned substantially in the past year or so about slowing down, about breath, about contentment in rest. So who knows where I’ll end up. Still, when I’m in that city, no matter what part or neighborhood, I feel an undeniable sense of home. I don’t get that many places, and it's a feeling I search for everywhere I go.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” –Sylvia Plath

Stepping across New York sidewalks, I can feel the same type of pulling that I feel traveling—this insatiable desire to explore every nook and cranny, the dingier and dirtier the better. Show me the sketchiest corner of the lowest neighborhood, the rooftops you're not actually allowed to enter, the small sections of green amidst the brick, steel, and concrete. Then bring me to a coffee shop so hipster its laughable. I want it all. Give me 12 hours and a pair of decent shoes and I’ll walk miles to wherever the Universe takes me, never once losing the bounce in my step.

In my five or six trips to New York, I’ve seen all the touristy parts of Manhattan—Times Square (which I believe is entirely overrated), Rockefeller Center in all its Christmas glory, The 9/11 Memorial and Freedom Tower, Chelsea. I've taken bike rides and laps around the beautiful Central Park. I've walked the Brooklyn Bridge and explored sections of Brooklyn neighborhoods like DUMBO, Bay Ridge, Sunset Park, and Chinatown. And I got to spend hours at 5 Pointz, the graffiti mecca in all of its glory, literally the day before it was white-washed.

Each time I drive out from the city and back onto the highway towards my hometown, there’s a longing to stay, to fall asleep to the beeping and bustling blocks, to wake up in the morning and go. I never feel like I've seen enough, knowing there's so much more ground to cover, so much energy to feed from. I get back to York, and each time I’m reminded why it won’t ever be enough for my restless spirit. As magnetic as it tends to be, as comfortable and full of love, I can't seem to feel entirely content here.

I've been told that this is a fault, that I should learn to be content wherever I am, that I take myself with me everywhere I go. I know there's truth in that, and I've done a lot to turn my restless nature into passion and effective energy, instead of just frivolous seeking. So I don't think of it anymore as a defect, or something that needs fixing. It's a decision against settling. How could I be satisfied here, knowing there are so many places like New York, places with so much more room. Places big enough to hold me, spacious enough to keep me in motion. Without a transplant to a bigger fishbowl, a goldfish stops growing.

♥