What I'm made up of

I am made up of skepticism and  belief at the same time.
Torn between notions of love, joy, loss,and solitude.
Somewhere in friendship, in education, in literature, in music, in good stuff to read, in silent nights, in cold winters, in the thuds of the curtains flapping against the wall, in the sound of my guitar, in the rustling of leaves in the middle of the night,  in the feel of the cool breeze play with my hair left open to dance around, in those tales about putting up a fight, in Van Gogh's Starry Night, and in the suicide note of Curt Kobain, I see myself. Right there.Trapped and never wanting to get out.