I am not good at making friends. Most of the time, I make it only about it myself, about my faulty focus, about how I am doing this new thing, how I don’t want everyone to know but listen to all this unknown, how even now in this tumbling self-centered supposed selflessness, I have not asked how you are, how I am fine because did I mention all this I am doing yet? Look at me looking at me.
It is a problem of the eyes, of needing glasses. To see others, I must first make sure I am not blurred. That all is clear. This makes me foggy above all else.
Like an adult misremembering a graying childhood and a child erroneously foretelling an adulthood that will be memorable but is instead filled with what did I have for breakfast and what did I prepare for lunch and do I even have dinner prepared or will I have to eat out again only to get indigestion later in the morning where this deafening deadening lives again, I have been terrible to you. I have not seen you as you, as how you are more than you are.
I was not there. I did not respond. did not listen to you in moments of need. I did not serve as a support. I did not make you laugh enough. I did not go to roaring restaurants and mindlessly explore the city and weep when there was time to weep, when there was time to smile, when both bloomed in the gorgeous generosity you showed me each day. Despite my failures. In spite of them.
In the repeating I, I do not want to rhapsodize about me. Nor do I want to use excuses of love and loss and life. Rather, I realize that I am the problem and the answer is a simply another I: you.
So, while I may not be good at making friends, I want you to know that I promise to try to be made with good friends. With people better than me. With people who want to make me better themselves. People like you, and the sides I haven’t gotten to know that are unlike you but are you so total, so living, and so wonderful.
I may not be deserving of this display after this lacklustre, tedious companionship. Such an outcome, though disappointing, would be fair to a dog that has boisterously barked and bitten a giving hand.
But do not just think I am the dog. I am the flea, ugly, useless, that can be trained in a majestic circus. I am the leash, controlled and controlling. I am the raw meat fed in an endless mouth during what must be the first perfect summer afternoon. I am mutable, and in a similar way to the unknowning of you, what you saw was not me at my best.
If you wish to give me a chance again, I’d promise to be better, to not need promises, to do simply and wholly. Your friendship means so much to me, and I hope that I can fairly, honestly, and uncompromisingly show you its bold boundlessness. That would be better than good, friend.