None of my friendships have sustained my growing detachment from myself. They were all headed for their regular doom right from the day they began. My first few friendships suffered because they got miserably entwined with my personal life, it was a world I liked to have kept separate and I should have. The next set of friendships suffered because I kept them far away from any of my other lives.
The only friendships that seemed to have survived were the ones that were left alone to grow. I like these. They aren’t bound by meeting regularly or time or the kind of information you give them and its proportions. They sustain over a period of time because of willing conversations. That is probably the only kind of relationship I am capable of today. They don’t hamper the necessity that space seems to have become for me. And for some reason I grow fonder of my space when there are too many people around it. Closeness has started to scare me. The lack of energy or interest to invest in new relationships isn’t the only reason why I seem to be running away from it. There is also this lazy comfort I have grown used to. It’s the slowness of a routine that I like when there aren’t any people around.
From previous lessons learnt, I have grown suspicious of how much of ourselves we allow the world to see. Before long you begin to wonder what the world is going to do with all that information. And how much of your self are you ever going to put through the test of friendship after being bitten thrice and more? I have never been one to learn from the experience of once bitten, twice shy. For all that cocky talk of space and boundaries, I am still a little child who wonders if people become best friends after spending a lot of time together. Maybe that’s what scares me, the fact that I am a little child who cowers in temptation to let go but does not.
Maybe I am just a prick who takes herself way too seriously because vacations have begun and I am jobless and Sarah Waters is not calling me like she used to. Pah.