It has occurred to me, in the fact of revelation, that the friendships I have formed once are dissipating. There is no fact I can recall to refute this, nor is there any reasoning that would suggest a logical twist for the otherwise.
I am writing these words, perhaps some of which will be empty messages, alone in a dark home with nobody awake but I. While it is true that no man is entirely alone, or disconnected as John Donne said in his seventeenth Meditation, I feel that I am at the very closest to this extreme.
What is there to say of friendship, of the interactions that this relationship begets from out of its existence? There are acquaintances I have, yes, but their importance is trivial when regarded against the definition of friendship that I hold. There will be no boring definitions of friendship here; I subscribe to the literal accounts of the dictionary.
There are many things to say of friendship: there is the physical, the emotional, the psychological, and the other -al effects of it. Those are not important in this entry. I want to talk about the loss of friendship. I want to talk about the steady deterioration of friendship.
If I am to speak of the end of a friendship, or at the very least the death of one, I should be expected to draw from my experiences a story or two of wronged friendships wherein a single moment of ill-advised knowledge catalyzed the end. There will be none of that here. It is true that men have wronged me and, as a result, have had our friendship die, but I am very much in the root of blame for these.
So generalize with me, if you will, the notion and the nature of my friendships or, at the farthest end of that spectrum, the closest of friendships. I am speaking now of the friendships wherein you tell your every story to an open end and, in mutual respect and understanding, the listener speaks of your tale and then moves to add his own. Oh, I have had these friendships, not in the degree of plurality where I could count that in the double digits, but in the exact number where I could be accountable for their thoughts.
I have no specific friendship, or the death of which, whereby I voice my opinion or my thoughts or my lamentations, holding that as the basis for my words. My life has placed friends in my life for my benefit, I can think of many and name those few, but in the very same way that life has taken them away with time.
There is no remedy for the loss of a friend in the interactive sense. They relegate themselves to the level of acquaintance and I, in my stupidity and lack of reason, reach out to attempt to bridge that gap over the ruins of a burnt bridge. It is pointless and it does not get me anywhere; I know this is true.
These friends, I would say, are too enveloped in their own minds of self-righteousness and false presumptions. Now, I will speak in specifics, though still very vague, as a result of my spite and bitterness as, believe me, it is human to do so.
I've lost a very good friend as a result of my standing in the pitiful hierarchy that is called highschool society. True, we did drift for a year but I still managed, however vain it might've been, to make an attempt to bridge the gap and at least speak. For that year, I spoke as if nothing had ever changed. In retrospect I am wrong. The friendship died, I will presume, for my inability to rise up to some sort of social norm or standing and for his inaction to preserve that friendship.
And to speak further of this loss of friendships, I will speak of the loss wherein one had delegated himself to a higher standing than was necessary. Of this, I am purported to act in such great crimes so to have alienated him from whatever standings of friendship he assumed. I thought none of this. It is his selfishness and idealization of his image that necessitated the schism of a once-strong friendship. He shows no humility, he acts without grace, and he does not see the truth that stands before him. He is beyond saving and not worth of time.
In the year that has died, or perhaps the plural of that notion, I am guilty of the crime of the dissipation of friendship. In my seemingly noble attempts to restart my life as a person who would turn from fault, I have alienated those I call friends. Perhaps they do not see it yet but I know some will be aware. It is just a matter of time before those idealistic views pass.
Of course, it is not without human emotion that I lament for those loss, or losing, of friendship. I see myself more at fault than they could ever perceive themselves to be. I am no longer social, I do not branch out, I make no attempts at reconnection (for this is a futile attempt), and worst of all, I am no longer sincere. It is authenticity and the nature of being genuine that forges a friendship and sustains it over time.
But then again, perhaps it is not I to be completely at fault. My alienation can be seen as no more a fault than their misplacement or their rejection at sincere attempts. And if they hold themselves up to be on such a higher plane, as a friend once did, then I will make no attempts to correct them. Let them enjoy their higher plane of existence before the world brings them down.
Thinking of friendships and the basis by which they are formed, I must concede the fact that certain friendships must have been formed due to ulterior motives. If I am to be called an intellectually minded person, then friendships will be formed for necessity of answers. If I am to be called easily helping, then friendships will be born out of manipulation of the altruism I sometimes hold. And if I can be called naive for sake of believing I could find lovely reciprocation, then perceptions will be formed and sustained on their action of feigned action.
I have no point in this piece of writing, as seldom I do. Perhaps it is an incessant rambling from a bitter person who no longer has what he wishes to hold so dear. Perhaps it is a calling of attention to friends I once had but have no longer, but I realize that they will never read this. Perhaps this is a wistful attempt at gaining sympathies from my readers, but I know I will never receive that sort of half-hearted ovation.
Of friendship; it is dying and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
I am writing these words, perhaps some of which will be empty messages, alone in a dark home with nobody awake but I. While it is true that no man is entirely alone, or disconnected as John Donne said in his seventeenth Meditation, I feel that I am at the very closest to this extreme.
What is there to say of friendship, of the interactions that this relationship begets from out of its existence? There are acquaintances I have, yes, but their importance is trivial when regarded against the definition of friendship that I hold. There will be no boring definitions of friendship here; I subscribe to the literal accounts of the dictionary.
There are many things to say of friendship: there is the physical, the emotional, the psychological, and the other -al effects of it. Those are not important in this entry. I want to talk about the loss of friendship. I want to talk about the steady deterioration of friendship.
If I am to speak of the end of a friendship, or at the very least the death of one, I should be expected to draw from my experiences a story or two of wronged friendships wherein a single moment of ill-advised knowledge catalyzed the end. There will be none of that here. It is true that men have wronged me and, as a result, have had our friendship die, but I am very much in the root of blame for these.
So generalize with me, if you will, the notion and the nature of my friendships or, at the farthest end of that spectrum, the closest of friendships. I am speaking now of the friendships wherein you tell your every story to an open end and, in mutual respect and understanding, the listener speaks of your tale and then moves to add his own. Oh, I have had these friendships, not in the degree of plurality where I could count that in the double digits, but in the exact number where I could be accountable for their thoughts.
I have no specific friendship, or the death of which, whereby I voice my opinion or my thoughts or my lamentations, holding that as the basis for my words. My life has placed friends in my life for my benefit, I can think of many and name those few, but in the very same way that life has taken them away with time.
There is no remedy for the loss of a friend in the interactive sense. They relegate themselves to the level of acquaintance and I, in my stupidity and lack of reason, reach out to attempt to bridge that gap over the ruins of a burnt bridge. It is pointless and it does not get me anywhere; I know this is true.
These friends, I would say, are too enveloped in their own minds of self-righteousness and false presumptions. Now, I will speak in specifics, though still very vague, as a result of my spite and bitterness as, believe me, it is human to do so.
I've lost a very good friend as a result of my standing in the pitiful hierarchy that is called highschool society. True, we did drift for a year but I still managed, however vain it might've been, to make an attempt to bridge the gap and at least speak. For that year, I spoke as if nothing had ever changed. In retrospect I am wrong. The friendship died, I will presume, for my inability to rise up to some sort of social norm or standing and for his inaction to preserve that friendship.
And to speak further of this loss of friendships, I will speak of the loss wherein one had delegated himself to a higher standing than was necessary. Of this, I am purported to act in such great crimes so to have alienated him from whatever standings of friendship he assumed. I thought none of this. It is his selfishness and idealization of his image that necessitated the schism of a once-strong friendship. He shows no humility, he acts without grace, and he does not see the truth that stands before him. He is beyond saving and not worth of time.
In the year that has died, or perhaps the plural of that notion, I am guilty of the crime of the dissipation of friendship. In my seemingly noble attempts to restart my life as a person who would turn from fault, I have alienated those I call friends. Perhaps they do not see it yet but I know some will be aware. It is just a matter of time before those idealistic views pass.
Of course, it is not without human emotion that I lament for those loss, or losing, of friendship. I see myself more at fault than they could ever perceive themselves to be. I am no longer social, I do not branch out, I make no attempts at reconnection (for this is a futile attempt), and worst of all, I am no longer sincere. It is authenticity and the nature of being genuine that forges a friendship and sustains it over time.
But then again, perhaps it is not I to be completely at fault. My alienation can be seen as no more a fault than their misplacement or their rejection at sincere attempts. And if they hold themselves up to be on such a higher plane, as a friend once did, then I will make no attempts to correct them. Let them enjoy their higher plane of existence before the world brings them down.
Thinking of friendships and the basis by which they are formed, I must concede the fact that certain friendships must have been formed due to ulterior motives. If I am to be called an intellectually minded person, then friendships will be formed for necessity of answers. If I am to be called easily helping, then friendships will be born out of manipulation of the altruism I sometimes hold. And if I can be called naive for sake of believing I could find lovely reciprocation, then perceptions will be formed and sustained on their action of feigned action.
I have no point in this piece of writing, as seldom I do. Perhaps it is an incessant rambling from a bitter person who no longer has what he wishes to hold so dear. Perhaps it is a calling of attention to friends I once had but have no longer, but I realize that they will never read this. Perhaps this is a wistful attempt at gaining sympathies from my readers, but I know I will never receive that sort of half-hearted ovation.
Of friendship; it is dying and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
