The Friction

I kept playing with my own hands - turning them this way and that, intently examining my nails and how they're all unequally painted,  opening it, closing it.   It's been habit.  I look around. My workspace is a mess of stuff.  Mostly art materials, unread books, wires. The desk with 3 works in progress - one in watercolor, one in ink, one in markers.  Nothing quite done.  Nothing quite undone.  The wind is tinged with a hum, my iTunes on shuffle as usual.  The songs almost too soft to be heard, still my heart is heavy with songs of lives that aren't mine.  It's probably pretty much coincidence how all the songs are lined up, given that it's Valentine's and all.  First it was Alone Again by Illinois, then it was Someday You Will Be Loved by Death Cab.  Then there was Your Heart Is An Empty Room ("Out there on the streets are so many possibilities to not be alone").  Like the Universe was maybe telling me something.  But frankly, I'm not asking for anything.  Really.  (Or I'm just not listening.)

This night has been dedicated to the past.  I have this ugly tendency of envying my own past.  Like, I was (probably) some greater, stronger person.  I'm trying to take my self apart, so I could be that again.  Unlearning so I could learn again.  I can't help but wait for that moment even though I know it's just some silly delusion.  I am where I am and there's no turning back.  Maybe it's wrong of me to wait it out; to let my feelings change with time.  I'm taking the backseat but I guess it's mostly because I'm not sure how I'd take the wheel.  And, will I like the destination if I took the wheel?  (I'm too much of a coward, apparently.)

I don't even know where I am anymore.  I try and tell myself that there's no use for doubts, that it's too late.  That I have to live with whatever is.  I guess it was just the friction of being something, and not wanting to anymore.  (But at the same ironic time, trying to be exactly that again.)

It's all so confusing.