Looking for Something

There's this thing that grates at me, makes me angry at I don't know what.

Every time I head home from a could-have-been vacation I feel it, like dull claws buried deep down inside me somewhere, trying to tear away whatever it is that won’t let them out. Every time I turn toward home, I know that, yet again, they won't get out this time.

The time away is never long enough, never strong enough to wash away what it was intended to cleanse.

I always plan to make it longer, but then wonder whether it's not another vacation I need, whether it's another vocation. Is it the time away I need, or is it a time machine?

When I see those ancient tractors and those desolate cotton gins and those weather-worn fences, I know that, somewhere among them, are the reasons I go looking. But I don’t know what I’m looking for. I just know it’s out there, hidden beneath a wind-battered sign or stuck back in the corner of a dark diner in a small town where everyone has left for something better.

I reach for a place I need, but still don’t know what I’m reaching for. I know I’ve been close sometimes, though, when I head home and get that feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m heading in the wrong direction.

I get upset and angry, like a caged animal. I want to strike out but I don’t know what I’m striking at. It makes me angry at I don’t know what.