It’s not like I refuse to talk to you, it’s that whenever I do, there’s always something sneaky about it. I know that you are one hell of a friend and all, being absolutely loyal and faithful and generous with everything, I’m thoroughly indebted, but the my problem, with you, and for that matter with everyone else, is that I cannot get emotionally invested.
Once you cross that line buddy, once you start demanding all sorts of stuff, and talk of what you deserve, or require of me to respond to all your grand confessions whose centerpiece is none other that yours truly, I will break off.
I sound selfish for giving you great injustice, but if one laments silently, where will all this bring? It’s not that I don’t care, but the very fact is that I don’t know how to care. I don’t know how much caring people needed, what words of consolation to bring, what gestures and speeches to present, or whether you need gifts to prove anything, or whether it is ever important to have a token to remember something/someone by. I can only march, for I am always a Franz.
If naught is to be heard, ever again, then we always wish him well and dare not to disturb his endeavours, however horrendous or heavenly they may be. From afar, from afar.
You will grow out of this soon, it only depends on how much are you willing to reach out, and pave way to more interesting things that are more responsive than I am.
In the end, I am always kind to those I don’t know well. At least I try to be so. And one at a time, because I get exhausted all too often.
And my time is always limited, and I don’t want to dwell on this no longer.
Whatever happened, happened. And whatever happens, happens.
perkaraperkara 