Identity crisis.

I'm like a different person everyday. I wake up in a new skin each morning, feeling my way around in it until I hit my normal stride and my movements become less unfamiliar.

Unfamiliar.

Almost daily this vague mist of unfamiliarity settles onto my skin like Chicago humidity. Except something about it is always ironically recognizable. It's the feeling like I've been here before. In this very moment.

I find myself again in the same situations. Always. Like the seasons, these situations come and go methodically, inevitably. Old situations, new skin. Same outcomes.

Only this time I really want to save myself from the same mistakes.

I feel them coming, but like a car crash in slow motion, I can't stop it. Won't stop it. Instead of bad habits, I've started to warmly refer to them as "my traditions". It makes me feel better about blatantly ignoring the past.

I find myself more and more frequently with the phone in my hand, paused over the dial button, but something won't let me press it. Something instinctual. Something stronger than my curiosity.

I find myself hanging over your words, deconstructing them, playing them back in my head to a set of mistrusting ears.

I go through the same damn motions of falling for you. Again. Harder than ever. And if I convince myself I'm a different person each morning when my alarm buzzes, it's easier to ignore it.