Not ready (or) What's next?

What did I feel that day when I returned
To that green house in the woods downstream
My friends, for whom not long ago I yearned,
Were there, and greeted me. As in a dream,
They've not foresaken threads weaved once together
And I was welcome once again there-in,
And all was good, as it at first had been.

But what? Be in my face that mud had splattered,
As if some pressure was released from down the drain.
I, being marked with some internal stain -
A curse, that witches of Macbeth have muttered,
Among my friends, was lonely once again.

Discouraged, worried for no reason from no cause,
Doubting that I'll come thither soon, I went away
Back then, in high school, what an introvert I was!
Now, once again I'm feeling happy on my own,
And know I've not become less like a stone.
My introverted self just did not sway.

I write these lines, and wary of my future,
Where will I fit in now, where can I stay
While having friends, and not to run away
From things unseen, unheard, and unimagined?
Can I come back to my old group of friends,
Who took me in so easily, so simply,
Without distancing myself and running thence
Because of ghosts that haunt the house and make minds tense?

I would come back, be not the ghosts inside.
I would play spades again, my friends beside.
But now, my companions are my texts,
And I am with them, wondering: what's next?