My friends are never out of my mind
I have several times a day where I would love to talk to them but I don’t. I don’t send a message. Or meme. I don’t say anything about anything happening. I am silent.
It’s fear. Fear that I’ll fall flat. That I’m tolerated not liked. It starts when you realize who you think that they think you are, who you think you are, is not who you really are.
You’re real friends see past the mask you are using to protect yourself. Past posture and phrase.
And you’re left with this raw exposed self. And you can hide or distance yourself. Not on purpose, but you never thought there would ever be people who wanted to hang out who transcended circumstances.
Not work friends, not writing friends. Though that’s where you met. Real friends. Who are just as bad about reaching out as you are. But who, when one of you does, reconnect like magnets.
Intoxicating friendship. The kind you crave.
Pre-pandemic, I used to meet every week with a couple of friends for lunch. For years. We didn’t make it every week but we tried. Sometimes schedules were too much. But I miss that schedule. That sure schedule of weekly dance.
Of trying each week.
Above almost all things, I want that back. And given my inability to reach out, I wish for it. It’s dumb. They are right there. Across the ether. But, still, I’m silent. Maybe I’ll put it on my calendar.
It seems that’s the only way I have to get it done.