The Dying Friendship

It’s been dying for years, the friendship. Incremental steps toward death. Baby steps one might say. But here we are. A long and full history filled with experiences. Some so monumental they will never be forgotten. Some so silly it would be a great loss to forget them.

But the present? Well, the present seems barren of fresh moments. There is more silence than laughter. New memories are just old memories being rehashed in a new light. The connection has thinned so much that a snap seems inevitable.

How did it happen, this widening into a divide where once there wasn’t even the possibility of a crack?

Time.
Distance.
Avoidance.
Disinterest.

They all lead to:

Animosity.
Frustration.
Sadness.

The crack appears.
A little darkness seeps out.
A silence develops.

As the divide widens, darkness shoots upward from the emptiness, a wide beam, absent of light. Shadows of our former selves are barely visible through the near opaque twilight of separation. The silence becomes powerful but normal, expected.

Is it over?

Can the dying be mended?

Can the death be staved?

No one knows the future. The seasons change. But as each ends there is an expectation that it will return. 

Friendships change. They grow, they evolve...they fracture.

Sometimes they die.

But…

Sometimes they last a lifetime.

That takes effort, communication, time.

To survive, light must dispel the darkness. The divide must be closed.

The shadows must become visible, break the silence.

If time truly does heal everything then maybe, just maybe, what is dying can leaf once again...and thrive.

Life After Death

What if I invited Death in?

Let him curl my lashes,

Apply my mascara?

What if I invited Death in

And we spent together

A day filled with laughter?

What if I invited Death in

And I wasn’t afraid,

Found him handsome and sweet?

What if I invited Death in 

And we drank French red wine,

Ate oven-warm Brie cheese?

What if I invited Death in

And all my fears vanished

Like vapor in the sun?

What if I invited Death in

And he caressed my face,

Danced me like a lover?

What if I invited Death in

And in his embrace I

Was finally alive?

What if I invited Death in

And he filled me with love

And I was fully whole?

What if I invited Death in

And for the first time I

Felt no shame in myself?

What if I invited Death in 

And we walked hand in hand

While talking about time

What if we saw his old friend, Life, 

And Life was more winsome, 

More fearless, more alive?

What if I was smitten with Life:

His smile, his laugh, his eyes?

And he reached for my hand?

(The air quickens, the light changes, a thought occurs)

What if I invited Life in?

Convinced

When one has convinced himself that no one truly cares about the things he cares about — merely indulging him as he romanticizes about the scent of a new perfume, humoring him as he reenacts a moment from his favorite soap opera, tolerating his frustration with the lack of consequences for rule breakers — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself he is his family’s shame and disappointment — welcoming him into their home, yes, but avoiding conversations about his life as a gay man, flippantly replying when faced with gay topics, silently reacting to his emotional outbursts on phobic occurrences, ultimately tempering his own shame — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

When one has convinced himself that he is a unicorn peacocking among the regular horses — chin up, aloof, lips glossed with color, lashes mascara’d, perfectly armored (um, adorned), an inkling of knowledge that makes him seem well versed, a pretender even after he is safely hidden away and has removed the horn he foolishly believes makes him special — it is incredibly difficult to convince oneself otherwise.

©️MichaelRohrer

I Know About (Not) Popular

I am not popular.

I have never been popular.

I will never be popular. 

There is no engagement of consequence on social media for any of my posts. My friends look but they don’t comment. Most don’t “like”. There are no questions. Using hashtags to get the posts in front of the eyes of strangers also does little in the way of making connections. Zilch. Nada. Crickets.  

Most of what I write falls into the void of cyber space. My essays, poems, fiction, and stories don’t find an audience. So they don’t evoke a response. There is no connection. Maybe the ancient aliens in the black hole of time will one day find my words floating around them and stop to read, finding a writer they can identify with, but he will be long dead.

I have wasted so much time wishing and hoping and trying, only to realize I am enacting the definition of crazy. The response is always the same. Yet still, I periodically insist on running around this loop of discouragement. 

The depression and sadness it causes me is real. And it’s real for others. In that I am not alone. But I am the subject of this writing, and I can’t bear the emotional strain, the mental weight. I can’t figure out how to just put an essay or an Instagram post out into the world and let it land, breathe, live. I desire a response. I long for it. Just like an actor needs applause. I want to engage with an audience that doesn’t seem to find me interesting.

I feel like a failure: worthless, unworthy, and less-than. I will never be a sensation. I often say being invited to the party is enough. But I will never get the invitations to the parties that I will then decline.

I might be a selfish, self-involved, non-empathetic person who thinks he deserves more than others, and that he should be recognized for his trivial Instagram posts and descriptive word choices in his blog essays and his…etc, etc.

But, still…

I am not popular. 

I have never been popular. 

I will never be popular. 

©️MichaelRohrer

Surface/Life

It’s all surface…his life.

There is no depth. 

It’s shallow, perfumed with artifice. 

The loneliness is real.

The solitude his choosing.

His anger is rife, 

And exhausting.

He places blame, lives in fear.

The walls are high.

The asylum soothing.

He exists in strife; 

Breathless, fading.

He sleeps, avoids by dreaming.

The nakedness quelled.

The exposure looming.

It’s all surface…his life; 

A creation.

He yearns to change, but is tired.

The disquiet is heavy.

The darkness seducing.

He does not long for death;

To leave anyone behind, mourning.

He longs for non-existence,

Which leaves no one broken-hearted from knowing.

The road is twisted, curved. 

The hills go up then down.

There has to be a fork.

There has to be a sign.

He has to make a choice.

Life…

His.

©️MichaelRohrer

Slipping

He slipped out of your life. 

Have you noticed?

Has it been a day, a week…a year?

What once was is now a memory.

Do you feel it, his absence?

Does it even matter?

The seasons have changed. 

Yet the sun is cold. 

There is a void, but is it empty?

Is the effort too much?

The slipping too easy?

Is there blame?

The light has faded, 

The colors too.

A faint essence remains.

He slipped out of your life.

Visible, yes.

But ultimately gone.

©️MichaelRohrer