Subcutaneous wanderlust

Although sometimes I wish I could be like the Magic School Bus and travel inside someone's body and really see how they function, I don't really want to travel under someone's skin. Yet the urge to travel, and move, and be tether-less is a, to steal the words of Thylias Moss, "subcutaneous halo." I feel it like a too-tight suit squeezing my essence, making me want to drive fast and cold and far.

To get out of the house and behind the wheel I did my mom a favor and went to the store to buy canned milk--twice. Don't send a vegan to buy dairy products. The first journey resulted in sweetened condensed milk, not evaporate milk. And people say vegan food is gross. Ugh.

All I wanted to do was take my mom's car to the wild forest and winding hill and perhaps all the way to Cali to surprise my friend Amy or perhaps more realistically just go to the Oregon beach. Sit on the cold sands, feel the cold water splash my legs to ice.

At times I wish I could crawl into my own skin and see what's going on: why do I feel my emotions more than my own skin? What is tight beneath it, tight under my sternum, compressing and twisting, making me gasp and pound my chest and tear my hair and--I understand why people scream in frustration. But whatever's in my lungs isn't the problem, although the air here is stagnant and I'm infected by its inactivity. I need out, but to get out I must stay longer. I hate this unmoving.