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@brookemoonie

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crystallized rose i made last year

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Ron Mueck, In Bed, 2005
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a midnight conversation with a friend on friendship
I was sitting at one end of the bed, Faye at the other, her joint hanging loosely between her fingers. The air was thick with incense and the faint, sour tang of weed. She took a drag, exhaling smoke that curled toward the ceiling like a ghost unwilling to let go. âEvery year, sheâd text me right at midnight,â I murmured, my voice catching on the memory. âShe was always the first to say happy birthday.â
Faye half-smiled, the kind of smile that held both humor and grief in a delicate balance. âNo one does that anymore,â she said, her eyes drifting somewhere far beyond the room, maybe to the streetlights, or to the night itself. I stood and moved toward the window, desperate for the sting of cold air to clear my head. I hadnât smoked in a while; it made me even more paranoid, turned my thoughts into wild animals I couldnât tame.
âDo you know who remembered my birthday this year?â I asked, my breath fogging up the glass. âYou girls, a couple of relatives, and⌠thatâs it.â She let out a raspy laugh, coughing slightly as she joined in. âSame here. Just you guys⌠and a couple of random hook-ups,â She raised her joint in mock salute. âNot even A or F,â she added, her voice soft, almost bitter.
A and F. The friends she spent every waking hour with, the ones whose absence in her life felt as impossible as the sun refusing to rise. âYou didnât talk to them that day?â I asked.
âOf course we talked,â she said, her tone dry, her gaze still distant. âThey wanted to know if I could get coke for Gâs birthday party.â
I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. âUnbelievable.â
She smiled back, but it was a smile tinged with something unspoken. She got up to grab water, leaving me alone with the flickering incense and the weight of her words. I watched the smoke curl and straighten, curl and straighten, as if the room itself were breathing. My eyes wandered to her bookshelf, rows of titles on attachments and intimacy, just like my own collection back home.
The room was quieter now. Fewer cars passed outside. When she returned with a pitcher and two glasses, I decided to tell her about O. The friend who disappeared a year ago, stopped answering my messages, left behind only the ghost of what once was.
âI saw him this week,â I said, sitting back down.
She tilted her head, curious. âHow did it go?â
I searched for the right words but found only confusion. âIt was⌠like nothing had happened,â I said finally.
I told her how he hugged me, asked how Iâd been, introduced me to his girlfriendâa sweet, warm girl I liked instantly. We had drinks, laughed, swapped stories like old times. But the whole time, all I could think about was the silence heâd left behind, the year I spent wondering what Iâd done wrong. I smiled when he joked about how our next meeting wouldnât take so long. But the joke felt like an aftertaste, bitter and impossible to swallow. I knew we wouldnât meet againânot like that, not the way it used to be.
Faye lit another joint, her movements slow and deliberate. âItâs not about you,â she said after a moment. âThey donât need us anymore. Thatâs all it is.â
I stared at her, startled. âBut we werenât like that,â I protested. âThere was no transaction, no ulterior motives. We were just⌠friends.â
âEven that can be a transaction,â she said quietly, blowing out a plume of smoke. âThink about it. He has a girlfriend now. A job. Work friends. A best friend. What can you give him that he doesnât already have?â
I laughed bitterly. âSo friendship is just⌠that?â
She shrugged, exhaling. âWhen you say he acted like nothing happened⌠maybe, for him, nothing did.â
I didnât reply. Her words hung in the air like the incense smoke, twisting and shifting but refusing to dissipate. She was right, wasnât she? While I drowned in questions and self-doubt, he had simply moved on.
Faye smoked in silence, her gaze fixed on something I couldnât see. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, then at the incense stick, now burning erratically, as if it too had been shaken by the night.
It was nearly midnight. I looked at her and smiled, hoping she couldnât see the flicker of sadness behind it. She smiled back, and for a moment, I let myself believe that weâd never become those friends who only see each other once a year.
Bill Mayer: 'The Offering' (2017)
https://lyletachikawa.com/bianca
The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.
- Charles Bukowski
I read a review about âWonder Boys,â in which the reviewer suggests that the main character finds it impossible to finish his book due to his inability to make decisions in his real life. This indecisiveness reflects in his book, which, like his life, is complicated and tangled, dictated by desiresâdesires to be bigger, better, to have it all. But how many of these desires are truly his, and how many come from outside? And can you even have it all? (No.) When you have everything but youâre still not satisfied, maybe you donât have anything at all. Only after losing the book does he realize this. His life is not meaningful if he is just drifting in the wind, and his book is not meaningful if every idea is in it. ( also funny how the book just got drifted in the wind, which set him free, but even that wasnât his choice)
This got me wondering: what does my inability to write say about my life? I want to write with my whole being, but I canât bring myself to do so. I can only write when I am bursting with feelings, and that doesnât happen much anymore. I have ideas, but they donât seem as good when I lay them on paper. Or perhaps Iâm just not talented enough to convey my thoughts into my words. Even when I force myself to write, I start to hate it afterward. So what does this say about me? Now I wonder.

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I will love and I will survive.