Why.

Every night before falling helpless into dreaming I can’t help but wonder.

I stare at the ceiling, I look at my hands, I trace my face, I think of all the things that I have, that I could have done, that could have been.

And then I stop. I focus on my past, I dig deep until I find one memory that’s nice, one that I can fit into the narrative I want to deceive myself with tonigh.

I avoid standing next to someone else, because ever since I can remember I’ve been surrounded by talent, singing, drawing, writing, creating.

I was just there, staring, hoping, dreaming of my turn, naively thinking it was something you got turns for.

I try, but every time I fail, but then again, I don’t know I’m trying as hard as I should, as I could, as I must.

But it’s okay, we’ll trouble our minds with that tomorrow, tonight I’ll choose a moment where I felt special, when I was at the center, and we will play it over and over again until I can shut it all down.