I can only write when I am not writing. If I try to write, I cannot. If I think about it too long, I cannon. If I start out with express purpose, I cannot. It is a terrible fate.
What if the world were reading? What if it mattered? What if I cared? I don't know, but it made me feel better to ask.
I listening to music drifting down from my housemates upstairs. It occurred to me a few months back that I love him. Philos, yo. Not erros. I don't think I'm quite capable of agape. I've thought I was, but I'm not really there yet. But I digress. I am drawn to him. He is talented, artistic and has great taste in music, most of the time. I can pick out a playlist of his anywhere, though I rarely hear the same songs elsewhere. I aspire to his nonchalance, though it is getting in the way of our friendship at the moment. Damn hipsters. Why you gotta be? Beards, swanky(while faux-appearing not to be) shirts, ,The dumbest pants, plaid, and eternally willing to discuss the finer points of whatever environmental/artistic/social fads that are being circulated in the lofty hipster atmosphere: way above the shaved faces of normal folk. I just want to chill out and talk. Have a beer. Put the latest music find on and let it take us where it will.
I miss my friend. I'm not cool enough for you now. I know that means you are undeserving of my friendship, but I still try. Keeping in mind all the little caveats and pitfalls that hide behind so that you can talk to people who don't matter about things that don't matter. I do still love you. And yes, I'll have a beer with you, but not tonight. Tonight, I need to nurse my dignity.