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.
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