I am sitting here in the library, writing an essay. I say that I am writing an essay, but it seems, in fact, like most of my energy is being used up by a warm sort of jittering in all of my atoms. I am tied together by sinews, and there are muscles packed in me, and I am enveloped by a layer of leather, and all of this is being glued by gravity to the chair I am sitting on, here, in the library. But in all of the space in between, in all of the ether and dust that is person, there is fierce buzzing, a sharp rebellion against being here, doing this. It has been building, these last four years, like a mosquito landing on an ear lobe.
What is this? How can it be? If my every cell is straining to be somewhere else, should I not, now, in fact be somewhere else? And if I cannot, if it turns out that gravity and the laws of anatomy are stronger than the particles of my being, how is it that they are still agitating in this peculiar way? This is a counterproductive motion for a machine of my genre, for a model carefully honed to the division of labour. I am writing an essay, I am working as hard as I can for four years, I am getting my piece of paper. This longing is useless. If it had an aim, perhaps it would serve a purpose, if it was saying get up, go, go to Paris, go to the sea, go change something, but it is not.
It has nowhere, no plan, no real desire. It is buzzing low, seething, whispering come.
Come, breathe the jittery particles, come away into the void.
We do not know where we are going, we do not know what we want, we know only that it is not this.
Come with us.
And this is the problem: the problem is that they may never stop, that they may forever be keening for somewhere else, may eternally refuse to recognize the imperative of tomorrow.
If they refuse the deadline of three hours from now, how am I to know that they will not one day, too, reject the double bed in the white room and the sound of small voices down the hall? How does one construct a life of atoms perpetually listing to flight?