Vagaries

There must a word each for these:

Standing in the shower for a bit longer. And a little longer. Letting the hot water enter your pores, seemingly washing away bad days, dissolving failure, from under arms, from between the crevices of thighs, lumps of hair, falling off, water in sharp strings hitting your chest, where it hurts the most, and scraping off, whatever it is that you are trying to; scrape off. There must be a word for this. 

Looking for that familiar face, almost everywhere. In buses, trains, sidewalks, malls, movie theaters. Everywhere. Scared equally that you might actually see it. It's a familiar face, though not very familiar. You had seen it, long time ago, probably. You don't recollect the contours of his cheeks, or the shine in his eyes, the shape of his glasses, or the ending of his chin. You have never seen him for real, for real, so you have made neat assumptions over the years. And living a parallel life with that face, a tiny parallel life with zero repercussions on your three-dimensional  life, this one, yes, where you have a job, and a family. That face construed of assumptions is not a part of this life, but still you look for it, on some days. When it rains, or when you're just sitting around. There should  be one word for this. Because it's possible to live many lives inside many lives, without anyone else knowing, and without these respective lives asphyxiating the fuck out of each other.

Feeling that you know a man inside out. May be you don't, in entirety. But then you know a bit too much for being an absolute stranger. You are seated on couches beside each other, and are barely familiar. But you feel that you know so much about him that you cannot look at him in the eyes, because your eyes will tell. Your eyes will quietly give away that hint that, yes, I know more about you than you have disclosed so far. Or will ever disclose ever, in the future. Probably because I have heard about you from someone, or I have encountered your twin brother from another mother in my past and that motherfucker fucked me up, bad. So you can't look directly at him, even when there's no alibi not to. You look at your wine instead. 

Going through days, even weeks, thinking and feeling a lot of thoughts. Mostly random, Unrelated, so totally detached. You read stuff on your work station, or sitting on the toilet, or while walking home. Stuff that stays, irreversibly buries itself in your heart. Like stuff that is deep as shit. But you cannot assimilate it and write even three words. You just cannot. Because you cannot summarize, you cannot firmly put your finger on the singular story that you should write. Things seem so generic and vague and hazy. There's no specificity on the surface of it, but the depths are swiveling you around your axes. You're being moved, but you have lost the prowess, even the bare capacity to understand the gist of what you're thinking. So yes, there should be word for this.   

Swimming against the daily disappointments of life, sluggish careers, strained relationships, crippling social awkwardness, and all other syndromes that are there, body fat, bowel issues, hearing issues, seeing issues, all the issues in the freaking universe, the involuntary and rather distant passage of time, lack of me-time and the boredom of solitude, both, endless but undisciplined diets, pointless to-do lists, laundry (yes), dishes (yes, that too); you slowly but steadily lose all your libido for life. But, yes, let me interrupt, but, then comes a shallow realization that if you're not in the shadow of a major calamity of life, you can ignore the daily disasters of life and continue to live, like your average person. Say a prayer before dinner every night, and eat. So yes, a word for this too.