Strangers and Friends

Friends that become strangers. Strangers that become friends. I’d say I have an even number of both that float throughout my life. Today, while sorting through papers and books, I opened a book I quite forgot I had to find a letter from someone I can’t quite forget I once had. I suppose ‘stranger’ would be the correct term for who we are now to each other, though- thanks to modern technology we float in each others’ background static collection of online friends. Where once words came in a rush now we only silently glance into each other’s lives through a screen.

I met someone last night. Oh, don’t get excited, I’m always meeting someone. They’re all interesting in their own way. I fascinate some, for a time. Some even fascinate me. And some become old letters in forgotten books; not quite deserving to be culled, yet there is the unspoken space- I can’t say agreement because I rarely agree- that words no longer flow through our connection. I used to wrack my brain in agony trying to solve the usually abrupt disconnect, and was puzzled even further that we never mutually severed all connection- and that, at times, I could even find them actively watching, as a stranger at the window into the life I lead curtains thrown for all to see. 

Two of them immediately come to mind- and both are integral motivations behind my bus journey. Strong, sweet connections that were severed- I’d wager- for similar reasons. Broken by what they put their heart into, they have trained themselves to be fiercely cautious to ever open their hearts again. And yet, our connection caught them off-guard- they opened- so beautifully to me; their eyes spoke of dreams again, their words an eager flow to my welcoming presence, and I watched enraptured as hope bloomed with connection. A common passion was shared, and theirs caught fire with every animated communication.

I watched transfixed as these determined warriors found spark after spark of motivation to just “be” again. Their knowledge and passion in turn, fueled mine, and for that I’m ever grateful. But they are broken, damaged, and still very guarded creatures. I don’t say this as an excuse, but what I have come to understand. I know they are still watching, that the forgotten book holds unforgettable words that speak of a fire that must be fueled. I am grateful for the strangers that have become friends. But I journey for the friends who know safety only by again becoming strangers.