Mulling

There are minor dis-satisfactions in life, which, while they remain unknown in their particulars, are nothing more than a vague and intangible gnawing in one’s subconscious.
He had been feeling one of these for at least several weeks, and in a quiet moment at work had stopped to examine it.  He was feeling… stuck?  No, that wasn’t it exactly.  But almost.  He hadn’t left the city in over a year.  Hadn’t ventured further than several kilometres out of the city centre.  Not since arriving.  The last time he had driven, really driven, was on the way to the airport just over twelve months ago.  He realised he missed it.  Maybe he did feel stuck.  Restricted by the distance only his own two feet and public transport could afford.
He sat at work, selling tickets to films, and realised that in bringing this idea from his unconscious into his conscious thoughts he had only amplified the gnawing.  So what was he to do next?
He sold another ticket to another film.
He wrote his thoughts down.
He would mull it over.
Later.
He sold another ticket.

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