Do you also feel that incredible feeling eating spaghetti? The fulfillment when you get the pasta tangled neatly on your fork, the excitement when you’re about to set the fork on your mouth for the first time, and the pleasure when you savor the harmony of the delicate pasta and the sweet, meaty sauce. Spaghetti is the food that signifies “no guts; no glory” (in the guts).
This journal is vaguely related to Spaghetti it’s just that I’m writing this while my best friend is preparing Spaghetti for our traditional monthly little reunion. See I’m not good at the kitchen but I’m excellent at the dining table. As she’s slicing hotdogs and onions, I’m feeding her with conversation, seemingly superficial but she laughs along with my shallow humor. Amazing friend, she is.
Friendship depends on the times that you share, the conversation, the tears and most of all the laughters. It is about creating memories. At least the long lasting ones but then again true friendship is meant for immortality. But that isn’t what this journal is intended to be about either.
Between Moulaine singing “she’s got ticket to ride” and her momentarily question of where the laddle is; my train of thought has passed me by. The thought has vanished but the feeling resides. I woke up in a lovely, sunny morning as if remanding me I have found my place under the sun. Found but not secured. If you stand in one person’s life and you don’t know your purpose, what good is it? Maybe your function is just to stand there, stand and rest. I like getting lost in places but not in a person’s life. My happiness greatly depends on other people no matter how firm I resist the idea. Sometimes people say things that can darken my morning but the sun still shines, the song still plays “it’s alright little darling.”
We talked about 500 Days of Summer because its where our conversation about relationships always leads to. How it makes or breaks a person. How one person gets left grieving but learning. The things we whine about the movie. The fear that one day while I leave a restaurant table the person left sitting will only call out “you’re still my best friend” and the only thing I can do is tell myself “friends my balls”. I am always the Tom Hansen to every Summer Finn. I am always the Nancy to every Sid.
With that being said I think I found the purpose of this journal to empty my mind of bitterness because in a moment I’d be tasting the sweet Spaghetti, and maybe along with a glass of wine.