It borders on the loony. I may be missing an exact expression for it. It is a very mixed feeling. Harplike. It hits you bang in the brow and you can’t even squeak. It smells of real friendship, of crisp, urgent gazes, of a sudden discovery of each other -- like two unfamiliar musketeers, out there to fight familiar demons. Feels like autumn dawn. As it appears on the horizon – you still rubbing your sleepy eyes – it whispers almost crisp-like: It has to go! There is a certain immediacy about the tryst. You feel a sharp jab in your heart. Life!
You think about the sameness of things. The big crowd that is going to swell – like it does every other day – around my existence. But would it be the same again? Nothing comes close to the joy of being on similar wavelengths, you ponder. There is a certain pleasing fluency about some relations which makes them personal and regal, at once. You don't want to give any names to it. I think friends often partake of such muckamuck. It is a generous potion of joy, sharing, comfort and cheer. Secrets.
It would be hard on anyone not to miss out on such a blend. But hope always lingers. Friends are also about endurance, I perhaps delayed to add. There are times when you simply give in to peradventure. I trust Søren Kierkegaard, the maverick 19th century Danish existentialist when he says, 'It belongs to the imperfection of everything human that man can only attain his desire by passing through its opposite.'
The pain of parting is nothing to the sweet joy of meeting again.