Today, I am thinking of what it means to be a friend. A friend is a pillow during times when I feel utterly worthless. A friend is my free therapist who I know will always remain by my side, if not physically, but spiritually, mentally and emotionally. A friend is a piece of art, an essential part of my easel of life when I wield my paintbrush with doubt. Friends are there together, during certain times, and especially during times of uncertainty.
But today, I realized, my paintbrush is still dipped with the most brilliant color, ready to be flourished upon a well-traveled canvas. But there is no art, the pieces have broken into pieces.
And I am not sure if those broken pieces are replaceable, or can it be re-painted.
I have always been someone else’s pillow, that free therapist. However, I may not be that piece of art. At least not to the person I thought to be a friend.
Nothing serious has happened, but sometimes it’s the tiniest detail that allows you to think, to re-evaluate the relationships you have with another person.
Perhaps it is time for me to dump out the old canisters of paint and find new ones. To clean off the dried coats that once smeared across the caps. Perhaps I can no longer allow myself to continue painting images of blurriness and ingenuity, rather, it is time for clarity and true heart.
As we all I know, words are simple. Art can be simple.
But a true friend, a real friend, is as rare as Mona Lisa’s smile.