a matter of perspective

Old friends long unseen, with whom there is a level of comfort and acceptance hard to find elsewhere. And yet, a sense of loss, of damage not to be undone, too much to capture with words and the time allotted-and are we so far past the days of knowing that it's not worth retrieving? And is the remembered intimacy really that or just a fallacy? Or do the lost days not matter, we slipping comfortably into what can only be compared to a favorite flannel shirt that is so soft and fits just so. And in the exchange of new words, the companionship and ease of old friendship is more than satisfactory. Where words are really not as important anyway. New friends, no ugly history, everything bright and shiny. The excitement of new discoveries, so many questions to be asked. New ideas, introductions to a way of thinking not yet known before. Or just an attempt to leave ourselves behind, yet again? And having to explain the scars, with inevitable misunderstood landmarks on the path of my life that may derail the friendship or may elevate it-a risk that may not be worth taking. Unsaid things are beautiful or ugly, sometimes both. When I hold my tongue to ease the path of another, it is good. When I hold back words because I do not want to take the risk of trusting you, the person I call friend, then the cost, while unknown perhaps, is great.