Borrowed (Post)Secrets

This secret, posted on Valentine's Day, struck a chord with some of my recent musings about the people who've recently come back into my life. It doesn't resonate perfectly with my own behaviors--it seems that after an important relationship dissipates, I usually go through a few weeks/months (/years?) of ignoring/avoiding (/being avoided by?) said persons before trying to reestablish some sort of connection--but inevitably at some point I'll exert that effort, and more often than not they're receptive of it. Rarely is it because I want things to return to how they used to be--how can we make progress if we're constantly attempting to recreate the past?--but because I know that they and my relationships with them are an indelible part of histology. They were once important, influential people in my life, even if their eminence has since faded.

Yet even as I am (re)creating these (new) relationships, it seems I can't help but periodically drift back into the old habits we shared. It's striking the ease a which we sometimes return to those same dynamics and rhythms--absent-minded teasing escalating quickly to frustration and irritation before dissipating to amused affection. Now cue an awkward exit from yours truly; when I realize what's happening I'm torn between just letting it happen and forcefully climbing out of that well-grooved path. There's a comfort in familiarity, and I'm uncomfortable with that comfort. Maybe it's an indication that I'm not ready, or perhaps it's evidence that they're supposed to be there--that we're destined to dance those steps.

Not that I believe in things like destiny.

Still, it makes me wonder.

Ultimately, though, I believe these traipses to dangerously resemble an unintentional attempt to return to some idealized vision of my past, where mistakes and grievances have been occluded by the passage of time until all that is left are faint outlines hinting at the depth that once existed. Thunderstorms in memories are rarely as violent, tempered they are by bouts of yearning for the possibilities of rainbows afterward. Fog intensifies even the hint of sunlight.

Enough with the vague and nonsensical metaphors. Clearly, I need to write something other than summaries of papers (fascinating papers about behavior economics, but summaries of papers nonetheless) and pages of notes I won't read again. I need to create something meaningful, even if I find a million mistakes in it every time I look at it after it's "finished." Posters are nice, but scientific research to me is too methodical to be an art. It can be beautiful, yes, but it's not art. I'm not messy and I'm not creative but sometimes I want to try, try to be something other than rational.

I'm thinking of investing in a keyboard for my room so I can play without feeling self-conscious. (Piano, something else I'm trying to find some sort of connection with after months of avoidance.)