"It is the same! -For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutablilty."**
Don't get me wrong. I'm hardly one of those naifs who believes that everything in life is static, unchanging. Mutability is a fact of life. Everything changes, blah, blah, blah. I think that I have gotten hit with more than a few changes and I'm finally ready to speak up about a few of them.
Perhaps I didn't feel shifts in my life as abruptly when I was younger, or I welcomed them. Or I haven't really experienced enough.
Mutability is going to be a continual theme for me in the coming months.
I celebrate that fact.
But it annoys me when changes put pressure on something (like a friendship) that should not change that much. And it devastates me when changes put so much pressure on things (like a friendship) that it is rendered impossible.
Yes, this is one of those circumstances where I am going to make a circumlocuitous, tautological whining argument.
Whenever I have gotten upset about something having to do with a friend, my mother would inevitably say to me, "MA. Stop. Friendship is a two way street."
Well, damn it, what happens when you're the friend that always makes the effort--even in the face of changes--and you stop making effort on your side of the street?
In one case, I've vocalized my disappointment with always being the one to initiate conversation or contact. The response? "I'm just really bad at keeping up with people." My response? (In my head? 'You're dead to me.'). In another, I've said little to nothing. And I'm watching both friendships die. I hate this shit. And I'm glad that I have great people around me in any case.
And I can't say that I haven't done the same thing to other people lest I be thought a hypocrite.
Damned PR people for Obama are right. Change is so 2009.
So I think my Latin phrase for this year is the following:
Semper eadem et Numquam eadem.
I should print up a t-shirt.
**Prize goes to the person who can name the author of this poem without the Google.