Introspective

My choices in friendship had always been strange.
I couldn't tell you in clear conscience that I was a very good friend, or that in the quiet contemplative moments in the night, that I considered any one person to be my friend at all.
It is strange what one can believe in the glaring light of day, but at night, and alone, it all becomes very clear, and I raise my glass -half empty- to any individual whose vision isn't marred by the moon, and still believes in the strength of man in that moment before sleep takes them.

I have many friends, all of which call me by a different name, coined in a different time of my life that to many, still remains an inside joke.
These people range from beautiful men, to handsome women, and I am unashamed to know them.
How well I know them is a mystery to me; what lies behind their snapshot smiles, and sly winks, it's all a mystery.
It is true that in those restless moments that result after realizing you are hardly living your life, that you could fall through the cracks and be forgotten, that I have been there with many of them, and have listened to their maddened ramblings about abandoned dreams, and tarnished glory days; but I do not believe I know them.

Make no mistake; I know of them, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind I hold tightly to the belief that perhaps we know no one.
Somewhere in my heart I believe that the Human Condition isn't a book that can be read word-for-word, but rather from a distance.
A theory not unlike impressionism, with a resulting image too sad, too sorry and too simple to comprehend, thus we shut our eyes, and fumble in the dark.

A friend once told me that I was ''Quietly cynical'' and that it charmed him.
He told me that he appreciated my plain face, and that it refreshed him to know a man who didn't play the part.
I thanked him.
That night I lied awake worrying about how I had never played the part, and wondering what part I would play if I had.
Then it donned on me how outrageously simple he must think I am, and an anger erupted in me, raw and exciting.
It scared me to realise that I was not in fact ''quietly cynical'' as he had said, but was in fact wildly restrained.
I fell asleep that night restfully knowing that I had been playing the part all along.

Quietly cynical, or however charming as I may come across, I have found that all of my friends see me as safe.
Safe. How one judges a man on any level is a curious business, and one I always pause to observe to no avail, but at any stretch of mind, I simply will not understand how one judges a man's safety.
Furthermore, I am thoroughly confused as to how I could be seen as such.
Perhaps it is a form of paranoia, or more likely the indestructable habit of over intellectualizing, that brings me to hold close the idea that no man is safe.
I would not suggest that anyone I know is safe, simply because they are human, simply because they are alive.

Life to me is a very cruel joke, and one whose punchline rings many times to punctuate our hearts.
Do not get me wrong, I do not think poorly of life, just as I do not think poorly of these people I call friends, and in no way will malcontent enter my heart for life.
It is simply that it is as unpredictable, and entirely absurd as people are, and is worth keeping one's eye on.

It is true though, I am not a good friend.
I do not care deeply for a single man or woman I know, not for the person that they are anyway.
I care deeply for the person that they don't express, for the person I like to fantasize about.
I care deeply and passionately for the child that I sometimes imagine they once were; which is why I ask to ignore childhood stories, in case I am wrong, and their stories will destroy what little fantasy I have devoted to them.
None of them know any of this od course; one can see it in their eyes that they are blissfully unaware of any ideas I may have invested in them.
One might accuse me of being uncaring, but they simply do not understand.
The affection I have for my friends is detatched, but not heartless.

Perhaps I rest too much on the ideals of friendship, perhaps many don't attribute intimate knowledge with friendship, and consider one to be a friend because they are friendly (what truly restful lives they must lead).
Sadly, when I see a group of friends, that I myself am not associated with, all I see is lies.
There is a strange amount of intimidation and cowardice, and it leads me to wonder how they could ever consiter one another as anything more than company.
Sometimes I observe a different type of friendship; it is a table occupied by people who say nothing at all.
The kind of relationship that causes one to wonder if they have everything or nothing at all.

I like to think that my friendships have been more worthwhile, and I still smiles when I remember a conversation a certain friend of mine had with me one night; or rather a phrase.
Silent and juxtaposition at the counter of a late night diner, we were drinking coffee; and while the customers gradually began to file out into the night, undoubtedly back into their quiet moments, and their sad moments, when they finally realising that the sun has set, and subconsciously know what it means.
We stayed silent, and very still, till the last of them left, and the quietly cantankerous waitress found it wise to take a series of smoke breaks, and yawned loudly into her gaudilly manicured fingers.
It was then that he chuckled amused to himself.
He turned to acknowledge me, and smiled before he stood to stretch his limbs,
i watched him, not saying a word, as the moment seems to require.
He straighted his clothes, the squeezed my shoulder, his eyes still amused and sparking.
''I have no idea who you are'' he said ''and if I did, I'd be crazy''.
Then he left.

We had never had a meaningful conversation, but I often tell myself that it is because he already knows, and believes that saying anything too daring would only cheapen the connection; spoil the plot.
At night of course, and alone, I often find myself doubting this dream, but in the light of day I allow myself to believe in the lie.
Like how I allow myself to believe in the children they once were.
(I only find it vaguely ironic that children are afraid of the dark).
I suppose they suspect I had a painful childhood, what with my request that they never speak to me of theirs.
It isn't true.
Of course, all childhoods have their pains, and their confusion, but one must realise that without those things you would never appreciate the good things, and glorious things, just as one doesn't learn to love simplicity until one has had their fill of the complex.

I have learned to love friendship for what it is, and accept that it is not all that I should be.
I've learned to adore the delicate balance of confusion and knowledge.
Sooner or later I suspect I will no longer lie away at night, because sooner or later I suspect I will grow accustome to not knowing.
Even in saying that now is painful; almost as painful as growing up.
It is a shame that as children we never appreciate ourselves.
We didn't know to then, and I suppose that that was half our charm.
The naivety of children is humorous and sad.
As an adult I find myself exceedingly dull, my childhood years were far more exciting.
Everything is new when you are young; simple things excite you for simple reasons, and we are not to worry about anything outside our reach.
These qualities would be faults in an adult, but in children it is a dream.
I wish often that I had never grown up, and sometimes in the dark of night, I doubt that I ever truly did, and that perhaps there lies my problem.
Perhaps I am merely a volatile combination of adult and child.
The dreary black and white logic of and adult, the over-analyzing frenzy of a developed mind, versus the daydream of children, the naive intrique that causes one to take the long way home, and stare out at strangers.

I have seen in the eyes of children a sadness that only growing up too fast can bring, but it is not often one steps to look into the the face of a clown, and realise that past his makeup is a boy who became a man when he b