Skip to main content

Friendships




One of the most frightening things in the world is losing a friend; especially when it ends on a bad note to the point of breaking your heart. Perhaps this is why some people never get very close. They stay so far apart there’s never a chance for them to heal.

But still, we all want love. We strive for the in-between point in which friendships are in no danger of falling to pieces. The point where truth is no longer more important than the saving of hurt feelings and lost loves. However, truth is what true friendships thrive on most. Truth is the one thing we all want to hear yet few accept.
Truth is an important aspect which lives in the best and closest of friendships. If the truth cannot be told without losing the friendship or the love, then there was never a friendship, never a love to lose. Yet we somehow forget this for the sake of keeping one more person closer to us. I've been guilty of this and trust me, the price too high.
If the truth will be told; most would rather have a group of acquaintances they call friends rather than have very few true friends close to them. Truth should never be taken lightly, yet it’s almost never taken seriously. Truth in "friendship" is not always a simple, black and white issue. Each person has their truth from their perspective which passes through their filter created by their upbringing and prior experiences. Then there are those that see someone else's truth as kindling for drama,
Having said that, I still feel that those pure of heart and clean of soul need never lack for true friends.

Yet, there are so few true friends left.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Bingo Across the Aisle

  At Sunset Palms Assisted Living, peace used to sound like plastic bingo chips rattling in paper cups, peppermint tea sloshing in saucers, and someone asking, every forty seconds, whether the thermostat had been touched. Then came the North Lounge Incident. No one could later agree on what started it. Mr. Henderson said it was the remote control. Mrs. Gable said it was “the tone.” Dr. Aris insisted, with academic sorrow, that civilization had begun its decline when someone changed the channel during a documentary about Eleanor Roosevelt. By Thursday, Sunset Palms had split in two. The North Lounge became the Blue Room, filled with navy cardigans, reusable water bottles, and residents who nodded gravely at panel discussions. The South Lounge became the Red Room, heavy with scarlet vests, patriotic mugs, and people who said “common sense” as if it were a legal weapon. Management thought it was being clever. “We are creating emotional safety,” said Brenda, ...

The 7 Virtues of Creativity EP. 3 - NOBODY ASKED HER WHY

  The conference room was climate-controlled to a degree that felt aggressive, a steady, humming chill that kept the air smelling faintly of ozone and expensive espresso. Wisdom sat at the polished mahogany table, her knuckles resting lightly against the grain. At sixty-five, she had learned how to occupy space deliberately, without apology or invitation. Across from her, the curator, a young man with a sharp haircut and a vest that cost more than Wisdom’s first car, gestured toward a projected slide of her latest series. He spoke with the rhythmic, practiced cadence of someone who had never had to worry about the cost of paint or the silence of a studio that lacked a heating bill. “What we’re really aiming for,” he said, smiling with a bright, professional warmth, “is a sense of creative empowerment. This exhibition isn’t just a display; it’s an immersive community experience. We want to uplift artistic voices and facilitate a dialogue centered on radical engagement.” Wisdom...

Citizen

    At sixty-six, I had gotten very used to my life. Not in a bad way. In a relieved way. My husband Marc and I had a good life. A middle-class life. Predictable, routine, sometimes even boring, which at this age I had come to appreciate more than I ever did when I was younger. Coffee in the morning. Meals at regular times. Bills paid, more or less. A house that felt lived in. A husband who is kind, steady, and regimented in ways that used to amuse me and now mostly comfort me. Marc is seventy-three. He likes order. He likes things where they belong. He folds towels neatly, keeps track of what needs doing, fills the car with gas before it becomes urgent, and notices when I’m worried even before I say anything. There is something deeply loving in the way he moves through daily life. Not flashy love. Dependable love. The kind that makes a life feel held together. And I was happy. Or maybe content is the better word. Either way, I wasn’t looking for upheaval. But ...