It's funny what makes you think of some people. Today it was the memory of a guy I dated long ago sparked by a newspaper columnist we both bashfully admitted we truly enjoyed reading, not as an ironic thing, but a genuine pleasure.
He's happily married now and doing well and I'm glad for him. I miss seeing him occaisionally and checking in with him, but maybe it's for the best that I leave him be.
I've spent a long time looking for my people. My tribe. My group. Every time I think I've found them something happens that tugs at the rose lens I forget that I wear and suddenly they aren't my people. They belong to each other quite happily but somehow I am always an outsider.
I've been around long enough to know who they aren't. Maybe I don't have any people. Maybe being an observer excludes me from that. And yet when you're separate from something, objectivity can be lost to lust and envy.
