Counting On You

It is easy to ask friends to count on you. And friends do count on each other unless they are not friends. That was simple. Anyway, what amazes me is that friends are supposed to do anything that you can't do at the very moment. Anything, like a superhuman. And when they fail, it becomes hard to believe that they couldn't make it out only because they acted a little human. You feel bad for the one you counted on. And even bad for the one you didn't think of. The 'what-ifs' never seem to leave your side. It only gets worse when the picture turns out to be far more acute than you figured, and your friend you counted on turns out to be far more heedless than ever. It is so easy to wipe it off when you can't make out something you were being counted on. It is so easy to shake off the regret of letting down your friend who counted on you. It is so easy to make-believe someone, especially if that 'someone' is your friend. But what will not be easy is counting on you again, dear friend.
Then there's another side to it, where we try to look past all the blemishes. We rely more on the good than the bad. And that's when we stamp it down if that friend is above the one-twos of laxity. And honestly, who has got the perfect shoulder to lean on? Or the perfect arms to be surrounded with? Or the perfect soul to die for? The only perfect thing to care for is the intention, which can deal with any darn imperfection in this world. The rest of the thing is just complimentary, ain't it? What do we gonna do then? We gonna brake those hover boards of all the 'what-ifs', and let the situation sink in. Deeper than the epic Titanic, yes. So that even the remains of it wouldn't make any sense. And we could just start all over again. Start counting on again. And come on, who cuts off a leg just because you fell down on the annual ballet eve?

Drained. Coffee? You better suit up, because I am sure as hell counting on you, dear friend.

LOSS

Some losses are big, some small. They may leave you unaffected, too. But when they leave you scars to look for, only then you realise how good the bare skin felt. Those burns need no ice. You don't want to feed them a thing. Because all the sick, forgotten memories do not seem to be tainted to you then. And the regrets, that come along, are pressing to you. They give you your loss's last words. And suddenly you want to do nothing but hear them. Hear them all. No, you're not looking for some solution on the slate. You aren't looking for a shoulder either. All you want then is a word that would tell you if souls do talk. The thing about connection is that it may be weak, may be strong, may be distorted, but it's there. It is always there. Even if you aren't holding onto it, it's all there. And when you finally lose the connection, someday, you still can't tell if it has all gone away. No, you don't ask for much then. You know not how to fix it all. You just yearn for a final goodbye. That's all that can help you sit and relax beneath that stiff shell. Mourning is not good enough. Your loss hasn't shifted a bit. But you mourn. Inside-outside-all the time. You don't want to show. You want to let go. Mourning helps then. But mourning is not good enough. You still mourn. It is all so annoying. But nothing seems annoying anymore. Your loss may even be mocking at you. But you're there. You don't want to leave. You want to take all that you can in those last beeps. Machines are not a thing to rely on. Life is never a thing to rely on. The thing about living and dead is that we care way too much for the dead. If only we cared for the living, too.