We should call, call, call. But sometimes it's easier to do something much more difficult. To forget, to surround, coat, and batter with self-supplanted duty that is impenetrable and unequivocal.
Well of course you're busy. I absolutely understand. I am too.
We know some numbers by heart, while others are merely a familiar wash of color and sound from the quick smudge of a finger flicked across smooth glass.
There are friends who matter more when we need them.
There are needs we fulfill by making more time for those who matter.
We each, all of us, at times disappear quick and swift like rafters capsized on a river trip.
"Oh, I think I see him."
And then he's gone from our sight again, and we wished we had called, wish we had reached out for real ... and gotten completely soaked.
But we are too busy. We burn time like money lit from the stove, twisted and bent and serving an insolent purpose.
We don't even smoke.
And then it's awkward when we see and hear the voice that we thought we knew so well.
It sounds strained, where as it once flew around the room, back and forth like a Superball, only coming to rest until picked up and hucked against the wall--any wall. It doesn't matter--didn't matter--which direction, because it will bounce off of anything.
But now it's cut unceremoniously in half.
It still bounces; its constitution guarantees that. But it is now unpredictable at best; impetuous and aloof at worst.
Who could blame bad aim in this regard?
It's not our fault.
We've just been busy.
Thanks for reading.