(Particularly on the subject of my already fading or faded relationship with people I used to call friends without a doubt.)
I’m all right, or at least, I no longer know if I really am fine or acting the part, or maybe I was intent on removing baggage (because I couldn’t carry them along anymore, nobody could have, well, nobody could ever know how heavy it became when it decided to turn to an abstract concept: a friendship without the walking together, the tensionless arguments, the late night escapes) that I shed something essential to be able to care—cumbersome, yes, but essential—and as a consequence I’ve become disinterested in getting it back, whatever it is. I’m fine. I’ll live. They have it worse, don’t they? Who am I to complain. Who am I, who are you: it’s as it is, only the young can recognize.
I wish I could personally talk to them, show them that I did have plenty to say, and I did say them (though they weren’t enough to cover long distances), not to patch things up, but to put a lid on them, and the words I would have used have migrated onto another place, another dead star, a calmer, locked chest. A heart too tired to travel is a heart that beats only under comfort. I seek, therefore, happiness. Not the kind I’ve gotten used to since 6 years ago… nothing could compare anyway…
I wish I could tell them that I didn’t intend for us to hurt, that I’ve only ever wanted for them to be satisfied with the kind of life they’re living, that I tried my best to help (the one way I could), that I, too, was empty, that I, too, wanted to be acknowledged, not invalidated, that I had never underappreciated any one of them (it was an overappreciation, in fact, that led me to this ruin), that I held on to the promises we made to the last minute—wondering if they’d forgotten, wondering what this library was for, wasn’t it for us, a place to call home, an oasis, wondering what happened to living together, making art together, what was it all for, you taking me in your cozy little shack, giving me a place to belong, only to leave at your earliest convenience—until I heard a scream, an audible crack, a gut punch, a “stupid me, they can’t afford to dream, they’re in the real world now, it’s time you get into that train too” and so I did, and so I read different books, met different people, ran farther and faster away from the memories that were whole worlds now crumbling, if not extinct, and so I forgot, and moved on, and felt colder, and felt warmer again, and we’re all better for it, whether we admit it or not. We coped in our own ways. I think I was stubborn… I chose to be.
Tell me, was it my fault for trying to keep my principles in check, to improve, and now that I have conviction, meaning, am I somehow less than who I was? No need for your input, I know the answer.
Ah, so that was what I left behind. Dependence.
There was a time when I needed their answers, or anything at all, any news is good news, any honest, short update on their misery is an “I love you”, and if I shrug it off, what of it? They would be patient, they would love me just the same, but that’s dumb, and selfish, and that’s not friendship is about, let alone the best kind, now I fumble for more definitions from the dictionary we painstakingly compiled and end up opening it to an irritating emptiness. Oh, then, friendship is absence?
Well. What are we now, at this point? No names. Colleagues. Acquaintances. Just another familiar face in the crowd. Throw that coin in the wishing well, would you? You’d need a whole bank for everything in your list. But we don’t trust banks anymore, do we?
So I stay here, for staying has always been me, what I’m good at, along with leaving of course, as I’m often accused, it’s too easy when nobody is left–neither resentful nor grieving, I’m convinced tonight that I’m way past that, though I concede that I’m melancholic, a touch literary, the side of me I missed the most–searching for Home, keeping a home, not for anyone but myself, though to my shame, setting aside a small space for those familiar faces who happen to pass by and would like to rest. I have coffee ready, no charge but a fresh start with no more half-hearted apologies and long-winded explanations. I’m not hoping, but being kind, I’ve stopped waiting, it’s true, but I haven’t thrown the dreams yet, I carry them in my pocket all wrinkled and old and like broken toys, useless, kept only as a reminder of the days when they were still functioning. Anyone with half a brain could fix them, but not soon, not for a very long time. Like I said, I’m stubborn like that.
And if I’ve entered into a false tranquility in this new home I chose to dwell in, I never want it to break, for fear of falling apart along with it. So here’s a coin I could toss without worry: I wish you all good luck.