The word seems innocent enough. It almost seemed pure.
The feeling of restlessness is far from innocent. The agitation, the anxiety, the indecision, the endless boredom, it's all exceedingly frustrating. It's ceaseless; there is simply no rest.
It's almost like a disease, but it's not contagious. It's a disease you suffer all alone. The solitary suffering is restlessness itself.
It's also relatable to rain, a rain cloud pouring only on your head, trailing you like a shadow. It is indecisive. Tap-tap-tapping endlessly.
The feeling is intense and overwhelming. It's restless.
When you feel how I feel, you'll see everything but see nothing, you'll want everything and want nothing. You'll be cast away into the realms of boredom. You won't do what you know you should do. You'll be denied.
Rest is inches away but also miles away. To me, it's smoke, always slipping through my fingers.
I am restless.