A Little Bit About The Path We Choose

I hate the fallout of friendships.
I hate the unmovable and imaginary line that splits down the center of the room, leaving us with the idea of, “You’ll stay in your half and I’ll sat in mine.”
I hate the cold war and the dirty looks between old friends who can no longer stand the sight of each other. I hate the lingering resentment and I hate it when memories appear to shine light on our foolishness.

It is right to move on (sometimes) and when the time comes and days change the face of our path, a moment will arise when the bitterness of a fallout becomes worn and nearly pointless. A time comes when memories of good times allow a smile, which is enough to disregard the resentment, and it becomes safe enough to say, “We were friends,” without the flavor of hardship on our tongue.

I am a firm believer in fate. And fate comes without warning or explanation. I cannot explain why paths intersect or overlap. And more importantly, I could never quite understand why paths that ran together for so long with history that roots so deeply, in a second, can either terminate or split drastically in two different directions.

Pride is truly a delicate thing. As tough as our exterior pretends to be—pride is no stronger than piece of fine porcelain. I believe this with all my heart.
Dedication, however, is truly strong. Dedication is what bonds the cracks of a broken heart Dedication is what stiffens our spine and strengthens our chin.
It is a fact that dedication is stronger than pride. It is greater than. Whereas pride tends to crumble; dedication remains consistent. When pride falls to the pain of delicate inconsistency, dedication understand the meaning of endurance. And when dedication takes over; that is something to be truly proud of.

Yesterday, I wrote to you about the late night stops at the Empress Diner. These were the times after long hours in the city. All of us sat together, laughing out loud regardless of the hour, and eating a tremendous meal before heading home to successfully end a long crazy night.

I am thinking specifically about a Belgium waffle with butter and syrup with a side order of Canadian bacon. During this time, we never thought much about tomorrow or how it ends. We never thought much about the directions of our paths and how drastically, or abruptly, our paths would eventually sever.

In the over-exposure of social media in today’s society, I see the term friendship as less meaningful now. In the language of media, a friend is nothing more than a name on a list. Ironically and similarly, before technology and computer apps changed the way we interact; we all had our own friends list—and if I am not mistaken, I believe we called that friend’s list a phone book.

It’s a funny thing. I remember cleaning out my Mother’s things after she passed away. Among her belongings, I found her date book. The calendar was outdated by a few years, but I remember her stressing the importance of her date book where ever she went.

“I have my whole life in that book,” explained my Mother.
“I’d be lost without it.”

This book is where my Mother wrote down her contacts. This is where she marked her appointments in each of the boxes that coincided with important dates. Of course, I looked at a few dates in particular. I looked at dates, such as mine or my brother’s birthday. I looked at the date of my Old Man’s birthday and of course, the anniversary of his death

With a sad overtone, there is something truthfully beautiful about my Mother’s date book. There was no “Blocking” feature. There was no delete button—there was only love, memory, and friendships.no names were crossed out in her book—only phone numbers that no longer worked.

I understand that we drift in and out of each other’s life. I understand that people need to go their own way or find themselves with different people doing different things.
And sometimes it is best to leave the past in the past. Sometimes the best and healthiest word we could ever say is, “Goodbye.”
And sometimes, there are no words more fitting or redeeming than, “I missed you,” followed by the embrace of a long-awaited and much needed hug to reconcile the connection of an old friend.

I hate the fallout of friendships. I hate the imaginary line that splits between us in two and designates the cold war with angry stares and dirty looks. The saddest part of the fallout are the once kept secrets that leaked out of anger. The worst part is the betrayal of trust. And so a result, it is right in cases like this. It is right to split because the shadow of deceit will often ruin the brightness of anyone’s smile.

I remember someone told me, “If we’re friends now then we’ll always be friends forever.”
That was not the case between us. But I do remember that night which ended at The Empress Diner. I remember how my friend laughed at my ability to finish a Belgium waffle with Canadian bacon and follow it up with a sliced Romanian steak with two eggs, sunny side up, and some hot sauce.

The truth is a day will come when I am old and reminiscing about the days of way back. When this happens, memories will arise of old friends that went a different way or chose a different path. A day will come when the feuds of our youth will fade to the realization of stupidity. Pride will crumble and dedication to an old friend will strengthen with a phone call—and when that happens, it will be as if we never split apart.



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