A Poet's Dream

I've spent a good portion of my life keeping in touch.

It's quite like a math equation: the time I spend writing letters, making phone calls and leaving Facebook messages is less than or equal to the responses returned.

I find myself wondering what happened to portions of my childhood; huge chunks have gone missing like mini strokes. Oddly, my nostalgia seems repugnant. Infinitely, I was under the impression that if someone wanted to contact me, they would. Instead, reaching out has become my second job. Am I the only one to remember the exciting foils of my youth: the nights of manhunt at my old elementary school, the inside jokes, the talks of boys on the way to track practice on Saturday mornings?

Perhaps, but then again I hear tell that the past is only as important as we make it.

The now has certainly caught up to me, executing old friendships and rekindling vague ones. I've kept much to myself for fear that if I express my condolences at the loss of my youth that someone will mock me for my dissatisfaction of the present. Yes, we're old now, according to new friends who will woe the reception of wedding invites and baby birth announcements, but what does that mean? The sadness we feel at aging is the desire to bring back our youth.

So why aren't we still friends?

Sure people come and go, and as Baz Luhrman is wont to repeat, but with the precious few you should hold on. What defines those few? Is it a grocery list of stats, a deep personal connection? Or is it perhaps the humor you find within that person's soul, a beauty that lies dormant until unleashed by the power of human connection?

Of course, I'm only waxing poetic. I'm really just missing the long talks and deep bonding I had with old friends. With the growth of our lives and college and family and boyfriends/fiances/lovers/husbands/exes comes putting someone before the other. Seperation. Loss.

Yes, I know this is a bit emo, but I am unwilling to fully admit it.

You're most likely wondering why I'm adding this to the Unemployment Spectrum, but perhaps it's occasionally nice to break from tradition. Frankly, I'm tired of mentioning my commute with people that don't speak English, my part-time job I wish was full-time and my inadequacies of living with a man I must rely on, like my father.

My head has always been rebellious, but my heart has remained loyal and traditional.

Letters should be by hand.

Important heart to hearts should be by phone or face.

A thank you note to a PR person should be written and sent not by email but by snail mail.

Love should be expressed as often as humanly possible.

And if this sounds preachy, stop reading. I refuse to apologize for being honest.

For those friends reading, I'd love to hear from you. It isn't often I rely on the kindness of those close to me.

Or strangers, whichever.