Last night I spent some time with someone I hadn't seen or talked to in months. It felt totally normal, but also really, really artificial. There we both were, at an equilibrium (point zero, refreshed, try again). I was comfortable. He was comfortable. Yet the energy seemed nervous and I left feeling as if, somehow, inexplicably, the night had felt stilted.
Perhaps the problem is that I can't decipher what he's feeling.
Our history is brief, but rough. Neither of us had any adequate grasp on what we were doing or whether we even wanted what we were heading toward. We came in sight of our destination, but hit a roadblock.
I know now it was for the best.
I am content with the way we stand in relation to each other at this moment. We are friends, but not close friends, and I am unsure if this is the way I want it to stay. Maybe, in the end, I feel so strange about last night because I'm afraid he wants to crawl over the roadblock and keep heading forward.
What's funny is that months ago, there was nothing I'd have wanted more.
Now, though, I don't.
I travelled onto a new road this summer.
I've pulled over into the shoulder of the road. Traffic passes by, and I watch others come and go. Their movement does not bother me, for I know eventually I'll resume my journey forward.
I'm just waiting for a voyager who is heading where I am.