My Own Pair of Shoes

I can gaze at pictures.  We have the benefit of photos.  We have the advantage of almost feeling former faces.

But that's not always a positive.  Gee, if it's not the anxiety of the future or discontentment with the present, it's regrets about the past.  Why so much lately?  Why do I see faces in my mind's window?  Why do I long for days gone by?  Why can I only live in the present for brief moments before the past picks me out of a joyous moment?  The claws of the past get a grip on me and I can't let go; it's as if I'm not the one in control.  I'm not though, am I?

I wonder if I could call you.  If I could text you.  If I were in town, if I could remind myself to forget you.  Or if things had been different.  If scenarios traded, or just a few more months I had waited.

Could I have put my tongue in my mouth a little longer?  Could I have spoken up when I felt torn or elated?

Why must I almost always be the one who's not assertive?  Will this timidity destroy me?  I let others walk on me because I don't want to trip on their fragile bones.  I don't like to be courageous, not all the time.  But it's often much worse to be the one without his own identity because he's stuck sticking up for others.

Lately I've forgotten where my shoes are or who I've lent them to, perhaps because I've spent so much of my life trying on others'.