Sometimes bombs fall quietly

Sometimes bombs fall quietly

Sometimes I get itchy, antsy, in this internal way, in this what-am-I-doing way, in this way that makes me want to jump up and down on the trampoline in the backyard until in breaks, in this way that makes me wonder if you know me at all, if any of you know me at all. This itch bubbles up in my stomach, tickling me from the inside out, leaving me unsatisfied with every single television channel and unsatisfied, dissatisfied, with every single song in my collection. This itch inspires bad dye jobs and excessive eyebrow plucking and closet cleaning.

And then the itch leaves and it leaves me unsatisfied, dissatisfied still, with this life and this world and this generation, with what is and what can’t be changed and what can never be undone or redone or done at all.