Fly me to the moon...

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...and let me dance among the stars ...all I long for...with Jupiter and Mars...

Imposible restlessness has never been defined a sickness nor a disease.
Some feel both. A push and a pull. The malnutrition of never having done the tango under the stars to flashy music, never having sped down a glittering speedway in a white leather interiorized Ford GT blasting Chopin nor ever having hiked the ways of shaggy haired goats in the Swiss Alps with only the sound of the wooden bells on their necks for music pales in comparison to the restlessness I can sometimes feel in my chest, gut and loins...
Though I have done the tango under the star, I have ridden in a Ford GT and I have seen a goat before, I still throb at the need to move. The wind bows, and as cliche as it is ( Of course I believe cliche never to bound a phrase to hell, for what makes a phrase a platitude if not the overuse) I feel it pulling at my wings. 

'walking becomes boring when one has learned how to fly'

I can hand out an engraved invitation, but it would not matter.
I will go, because some of us do not want to go to sleep at night
and dream about the things I can wish forever about doing,
when I could be doing.

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