confused

I haven't been very focused lately. My mind wanders, and my heart goes along to see what it's up to. I've been simultaneously filled with overwhelming restlessness, desire and boredom. There is so much I want to do, but I can't seem to bring myself to do anything, because the minute I do, I want to do something else - hence, the inability to focus. 

So I'm going to try and write down my thoughts in as coherent a manner as possible, in the vain hopes that it translates some meaning back into this cotton-brain of mind that is determinedly refusing to absorb. 

• I want to write a book.
  
• I really want to stop working for other people and do something for myself instead.
• I want to find something I can do for myself, without breaking the bank.
•  I want to own my own home and stop letting hard-earned money disappear each week into someone else's pocket.
• I want to travel. First to France, where I can be inspired by her romance, her poetry, her beautiful  architecture and the gentle melody of a complex culture that's captivated me from the very beginning. And then I want to go New York where I'll be caught up in the buzz and movement. Where street lights and neon signs, yellow cabs and jazz bars assault my senses. And then I'll double back to Europe and spend a month in Prague, doing nothing but inhaling, writing, walking, matching the rhythm of my heart to the sound of my footsteps on the cobbled-stone sidewalks. 
  
• I want to be satiated. On books, on wine, on words, on sex, on anything.
• I want to learn how to speak French and German. Fluently.
• I want to find daily meaning in the work I do, and not feel like I'm wasting my days doing something that I could lose and not really care. 
• I want to indulge without feeling guilty.
  
• I don't want to be conventional - or have a conventional life. 
• I want to be around people and not feel so detached. 
  
• I want to dance. 
• I want to feel the warmth of a baby's skin against my heart as I sing her to sleep. 

The truth is, I haven't always been able to admit my desires to myself. Much like I don't admit how comfortable I actually am being alone, more than I am when surrounded by loud, boisterousness. And so, there are many things I don't say out loud. Preferring to let others come to their own conclusions about me. Which more often than not, brings the word aloofness to mind. 

These days however, everything I do makes me feel guilty. Buying more than two books at a time. Wanting to take the day off work just so I can stay home and write. Dining out instead of staying at home. The voice in my heart that tells me maybe having a child now would complete us - why wait another few years? The voice in my head that tells me why. The heart that longs for more than what it already has. These days, I'm starting to care - that I don't really have any good friends. That I can spend a whole Saturday night reading, and not really be bothered by the fact that I'm not going out or having 'fun'.

Then again, I'm tired of feeling guilty. We only have one moment, one life, which we can make ours. Which belong to us. This is my life. And I shouldn't apologise for who I am or the things I desire. 

Or perhaps it would simply be easier if I did.