Growing up in a small town can breed a specific type of restlessness. It is the restlessness of having nothing to do. There is not a lot of “new” that happens there. After a while, the restlessness can agitate to the point where the impulse to seek adventure in a new place can’t be denied. And you leave, heading for the dramatic possibilities of the city.
What you don’t realize is that the city doesn’t quench the restlessness but fuels it. You miss harvest season, when you can drink a beer on your porch and see for miles. Angst turns into tenderness, and with something between resignation and acceptance, you go home. It is only in the return that you realize there is beauty in having nothing to do.