So it's been a long time since we've been friends. Actual real friends that called eachother without awkwardness or weirdness or barely hidden ulterior motives.
Maybe it's been forever.
And yet. And yet I can't help but to believe at some point we were friends. Actual friends.
Because I miss it. Not all the time. Not even, actually, often.
But there are things, occasional things, that remind me of you. Vividly.
And there are pictures. Oh so many pictures of us effortless enjoying life in a way that seems real. That makes me think my memories are anchored in more than fanciful imagination.
And I am not sure what to do about it, because whatever I miss, on occasion...is missing. It's a hole. A groove. A groove I can no longer get into. A groove I loose my balance on whenever the wheel hits this divot at the wrong angle. It's the part of me that knows how to relax, and just that much. It's the part of me that knows how to have some damn fun without caring for anything else. It's a certain part of a free me that I traded for judgement and anger and the very opposite of freedom: tether to righteous indignation.
And there is irony. Do you see the "right" in righteous indignation? It sits there to remind me that I cut that cord out of self respect. I cut that cord out of honor. I cut that cord out of self love and love for others and the need to value friendships I could truly trust. I cut that cord because I knew, as long as I was friends with you, I left myself open to behavior that invited misery, that encouraged frustration. I cut that cord, not only because you betrayed me, but because I betrayed myself, over and over, each time I let you.
And there is sense. Because that lightness I miss. That occasional deep deep comfort with prioritized frivolousness is also what I hated about you. It is what fed my anger to the exclusion of affection.
Now see: no one who floats so effortless in shallow waters is ever actually buoyed, and no one who keeps such tight bedfellows with amusement, free from atonement, is ever truly attached. To anything. Because loss fuels that heavy heavy doubt, and mistakes we invariably make pepper our perception with gravity as we age and live and do and misstep in our deeds.
In short, your ability to not really care about the results of your actions. About those you hurt. About me. About seemingly anything, really, except the fleeting chance at amusement, comfort and your own hopeful peace was what allowed me to exist in the same realm. To imagine each moment, free from the past. Because so often moments offer options for fleeting joy, if we can only forgo the context.
So what do I do? Because there it is. That warm spot I used to nap in, peacefully. That endless sense of time that only took moments. That short break in the work week I occasionally need without reflection, without awareness, without the constant presence of work that needs to be done, the moment real life resumes.
It's not love. Its not life. It's not the deepest sea I will ever fish in. But it's there. That bit of seasoning. A pinch of salt. A touch of vanilla. One tiny bump within many wheels and cogs. Rhode Island. The smallest piece that is part of a very large puzzle.