Swimming in quick sand


Friday, August 03, 2012



You canít force someone to be your friend.

The more you try, the more they hate you, especially when they dislike you to start with.

In all this, there was never any middle ground, always all or nothing, and I wanted to stand some place in this that wasnít so deep that I always felt like I was over my head, drowning all the time.

In the end, as the poem goes, I was swimming in quicksand, where there is never any middle ground, just oblivious.

I donít even know why all this bothers me so much, why I need or desire someone elseís good opinion and friendship that I would risk my life to retain it, clinging to sheds of hope that it might be possible long after it clearly wasnít.

People like me never get the message until someone puts a gun to my head and says: ďGet it now?Ē

A friend asked how I feel now that I have capitulated. I said, like a wind up alarm clock that had been over wound for so long Iím not unsprung.

The inevitable, of course, is the long humbled walk away, back bend, utterly defeated, knowing that I will always have this gun to my head, always give in to whatever demand is made, losing dignity as well as the illusion of friendship.

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