we’ve already shared a lot; lots of car rides and first moments, of joys and sorrows and fears of young adulthood — even tears and subsequent consolation.
I wonder why it is, though, that I feel such a disconnect as we make our endless smalltalk, as I nod along to your endless stories, as you share with me your world via pop culture. no, don’t get me wrong — your smalltalk is masterful, your stories epic, and pop culture, well, that’s prolly a lost cause to begin with. but there’s something stale and crunchy and frictiony I can’t get past, and I’m not sure whether it’s me or it’s you or it’s us. prolly a combination of all three, on different occasions and different environments.
there is one thing, though, that always brings us together: commiseration. about how expensive rent is, how tired we feel, how sad and measly our lives are in this great and epic place and time. there’s something about complaining about things worthy of our gripes while trying our best to be optimistic and belly-laugh our way through it all that makes me feel genuine with you. maybe it’s a human thing.
you are lovely. and I know that. I just don’t know why I can’t feel it. why I can’t touch it, grasp it, talk to it. without complaining about it. eh hem.