What I think is that there is more room in my lungs than is taken up by the air that I am given, and that part of what makes me so restless with the now and then again is how shallow the breathing is. And how useless it is to look for new atmospheres if you haven't yet found the keys to the doors in front of them. How is one supposed to operate a battering ram without sufficient breath to even get up the hill?
In China one evening we got ourselves accidentally kidnapped by a friendly cab driver who drove us up into the hills outside of the city to the dining room of a tiny lady with a freezer full of truly disgusting popsicles. Later, when we returned to our cab to head back into the city, I couldn't help noticing the haze and the heat and the tiny lights of the town below wrapping their fingers around my arms, marking my skin with their fingerprints, the unexpectedness of the whole evening like surfacing in a pond.
There is a lot of room left under my skin for all of the things I haven't yet seen.