Why is it that I have dozens of people who I call my friends, yet when I need a friend most I'm all alone? I know I'm not an easy person to be friends with; then again, neither are they. I pick up charity cases and lost souls, and do my best to make them right. Yet somehow, I'm the one sitting alone, looking perfectly content in my solitude yet secretly, desperately hoping for someone to come by. It's a fairly depressing existence, only managing to grasp onto hope by a thread of pure ambition, and the dire need to get out. My definition of "getting out" has changed over the years, but the desire has never wavered. I want to gather my things and take the first plane out of here, and watch through a little camera in my brain how my "friends" react. Some will probably be relieved, airing their opinions of me that have lain dormant for too long; others will truly miss me, and I may regret causing them sadness, but they will forget me eventually; it is what we are wired to do.
And suddenly, I am stirred out of my reverie by another person, infringing on my pity party. She takes interest in my band T-shirt, and a conversation is born, though whether out of pity or true interest I'll never know. We talked a long while about journalism, friends, and school, and finally parted ways, a genuine smile eviscerating the painted-on shadow of it I normally possess.
And though the happiness faded quickly, hours later I have not forgotten the kind gesture of an upperclassman who likely had better things to be doing than fraternizing with a lonely freshman. I sit, lost in reverie, absently fiddling with a loose thread on my shorts, and I reflect.
Perhaps there are honestly good people.