Personal Prose

Personal Prose

Who knew making friends would be hard?
Back 15 years ago, you'd set us down and we'd just start running around; playing pretend, beating each other, slapping a ball with a stick, and we'd be happy. We'd connect.

Now you can't even get me to talk in a crowded room to a stranger. I've been dropped in the sandbox, but no one pretends, or slaps sticks, or even beats me. When did it get so hard?

I'm smiling. I'm sure someone's bound to notice I'm searching. I have to be that desperate if I'm smiling and trying to make eye contact even with the recluse who would rather sit alone.

I've tried. Really. And almost had a bite too. They come, or I go there. And a good time takes place. But afterwards there are no calls. I guess that's people being nice. I'd hate to receive the bad news as the gospel truth as much as they refuse to preach it.

Stranger in a foreign land they say. Except I don't know any of it even when it's my own.

-Matthew Koutzun