Birthday Blues

The Thing about Friends…

One would expect those around you for days on end, year in and out, would know you on some innate level of understanding. Your dislikes and points of interests, the turn of your moods and expressions or even the fall of a smile.

You would expect them to embrace everything about you, even if they dislike it down to your music tastes and alcoholic preferences.

But that seemingly doesn’t always happen.

I feel as I am a jilted lover standing on the train platform, watching the 9am to Brisbane depart through the winter mist that exudes from my pores. I am a wraith to these people, an ornament or fixture to pick up and dust off every so often when they tire of their other toys. And then I walk how they like me too, slowly behind them, my legs short and sore of neglect; my mouth moves loosely, fumbling around words and jokes that I never really get; even when I’m the joke.

I watch moving pictures with fondness and laughter as they switch around me restlessly, questioning and offering other modes of entertainment. This is my day, but it doesn’t seem to be. It becomes theirs as the make plots of cherry bombs and trolleys - activities of a near youth, not mis-spent but I do not want to regress. I can no longer feel the magic of defacing public property and costing people. Time, money, feelings. I cannot deface their lives; I haven’t the right to be so meddlesome.

And yet they meddle in mine without a thought, my ideas or wants are not good enough, not adventurous - even though it’s freezing outside and I already have a hollow chest that rattles with rocks and gravel, inspired by the season.

I do not like their music. It’s loud and brash, imperfect for the tone that I feel myself immersed in; I want soft chords that carry me away or the funked up beats of hip hop, rap and dance music. I want to feel joy. I want to move my feet with my toes and smile for the sake of it, taste the rhythm and feel it pull me down into euphoria. I do not want drinking songs and droning lyrics of pain and desperation. I want happiness, even though on this night it is eluding me. I do not want to stay stalwart in the same patterns of immaturity, it does not appeal. I do not appeal to them for me predilections to Usher, Timbaland, Hilltop and bubbly songs stir their sniggers. And I thought they knew better.

We can listen to music…if it is their music.

We can socialise…as long as they set the scene, atmosphere and hierarchy.

We can celebrate…as long as they are in control.

I can be me…not with them.

Or so I fear.

They leave, after driving tracks and tricks around a animated circuit; I like that place of Mario and shells, thrashing and driving but they still leave with music in their heads which is not mine. And never will be.

Tequila? Not good enough, not smooth enough, not masculine or is it too challenging? They refused to partake, arguing work commitments and such, even though I’ve seen such people flout those excuses before. In their setting. But not mine. I am not. I am not who I was or they have stayed still.

I am left with a sense of forlornness, as the station manager calls numbers and commands. Numbers. I am a number, several in fact and none worth celebrating. They didn’t even sing Happy Birthday. Not once, nor was there an utterance of well wishing, of dreams, of thoughts and interest.

I am a number. I am not a person, left on the train tracks as they blow away and the droplets from the sky beat me.

Family

There is an adage I suppose, that notes that you are free to choose your friends but not your family. I disagree.

I challenge that adage with this quote,

A friend is someone with whom you dare to be yourself.

-Frank Krone.

Think about that.