Brie Fly (pt. 7)

October.

"Good-byes" are hard to say and deal with, yet all things come to an end. I once said this to an older friend. Although he felt the total impact of what I'd said, he tried to explain that things did not always have to end so suddenly. I felt like this was just a muffled cry of unacceptance. Unacceptance doesn't stop the process - life goes on no matter who sticks his fingers in the gears. This foolish person is insignificant to the machinery. To the perpetual motion.
Life goes on.
I just have to remind myself sometimes.

I wrote that "good-bye" for my best friend. We were slipping further and further apart, and at that point, we were not even talking to one another. There had been no argument. We disagreed on nothing. We just weren't talking.
Jameson would stand there, peering nervously out the window, waiting for class to start. It was as if he had drank a tall glass of "uneasiness" and it had flooded his being. There was also the stagnant aura of pride.
I stank of it, too.
His thin form, his unruly hair, his long fingers poking through the blinds. Bending them to suit him - the voyeur. He was somewhat immersed in the spectacle of the ordinary.