Mediocrity

I'm experiencing suffocating degrees of comfort.
But I'm struggling to understand the cause of my cozy respiratory failure.
My heartbeat is certainly present.
In fact, in the many moments I'm frozen still and staring into a space before me that isn't there… my heart knocks louder than the noise I left behind.

Perhaps I can breathe and I'm just choosing not to.
Yes. I'm holding my breath.
I'm waiting for something.
I don't know that I'd know it if it came but, I feel the need to wait.

I don't know that I ever want it to come because, I just want to wait.

Something is missing.
But I'm comfortable waiting. 

Only waiting.
Yes. This is fine.
I know how to be this.
I don't know how to be that.

I probably shouldn't keep asking them to love me for being that...
That which I am not.

I'm afraid of being that.

No. That's not it.

I'm afraid of failing to be that.
And if I succeed, I'd be afraid of failing to stay there.

But I'm terrified of staying as I am.
I don't want to be this.
I want to be that.

And them?
If they need a reason to love me, then they never will.

I want to be that.

But not for them.
I want to breathe for me.