Bliss

The restlessness is like a coiled muscle at the back of my knee, screaming and refusing to let me sit. Like a fly trapped in a bottle that knows nothing but the beyond. I can step outside and walk the length of the corridors till my feet hurt and the sweat slosh in my shoes, and still it would not tire. I imagine the evening, alone, marijuana, sunk in the couch with my feet thrown across another, a book sprawled across my lap, my hands spilling limply over the armrests, the lights from the television dancing in my bleary half-closed eyes. Bliss.