Time passes by, where are we?

I read a few entries over on my old livejournal.
Crossroads of my past.
Touching, exciting, mostly helping understanding my former self.

Now I'm in the middle of nothing. I wait to work, everyone started and I wait and wait and wait until next Wednesday. I feel left out. I feel unimportant. Unnecessary.

My head full of plans how to start the new season, the specific new play.
Recipes of apple pies as welcome in my head, telephone lists on the to do list and the ever growing impatient feeling of finally getting my hands on the textbook to dive deep into Kafka's thoughts and transfer them onto stage, onto our time.
Why isn't it Wednesday already?

Meanwhile I am occupied with visits to authorities such as health insurance, employment agency - all of which make no sense and are a waste of time.

Time I could use to read (Erich Fromm! Art of Loving!), to prepare a rehearsing schedule, to write (here, my beauty blog, my two paper diaries), to daydream, to sleep, to breathe the North Sea air...

In other news, all this idiocy of bureaucracy has kept me very much from pondering my nonexistent love life or people I could potentially love again (or never stopped loving for that matter).
It made me realise that I am not in love.
I haven't been in a long time. B4 hurt me too much. He probably broke something in me.
More than B1 did.
I am better off on my own.
I do love. A lot.
But I haven't seen butterflies in too long and I wonder if they ever come back, if spring ever comes back.
Now, it's just all about lust.
I see a certain person. A dancer. A director. An actor. People I work with on a daily basis and all I can think of is how hot they are. Or aren't. But there is nothing more.

As for the first real love, the probably only one for my heart - all this holding hands, leg on leg, hugging and tears - wasn't this the alcohol AND the lust, the unknown, the mixture of old feelings and everlasting curiosity of sexual desire?
I am scared that if/when/if/when/if/if/if he comes to visit me we end up in bed and my heart will be broken after we took the step we have never taken. Most definitely it will rip open old wounds afresh, where's the use in that?
He does not know what he wants and actually, do I?
Do I want this, again?
Does he want this at all?
Curiosity belongs to teenagers, we're grown up now and it will not lead anywhere but to pain.
That is not the way it should be.

This time, reason has to win over heart.

With more time on my hands spending for nothing important at all, I have no time to think and rethink these things over and over and over again.

I suppose that is good.