Who are these people? he thought to himself as he rubbed absently at the inside of his leg. You grow up with a handful of people, you spend a great deal of time delving into them to find out what makes them tick, and allowing them to do the same and you come out the other end knowing them even less than before. Fucking time. Things change. They change a lot. They change often. They sometimes change in ways that make you look at your best friend as though for the first time.
This hurts. This person, these people, are alien to him. He doesn't know his place in this group anymore. The dynamic of the group has evolved into something that leaves him confused. He once felt loved and respected, and even a little important. Now words are all that seem to be important. Words. Not that words could ever be UNimportant. No. Words are our greatest tools, our most versatile instruments, and most powerful medium. But there is more to life than words. Than talk. You can only learn so much about the world while still knowing nothing of yourself and those important to you. All the political and philsophical debate in the world will bring you very little if you can't function on an inter-personal level. These people seem to lose sight of this sometimes.
It's not that there is malice attached to this observation. No. He loves them all, probably now more than ever, but they're sitting right in front of him and he misses them. Terribly. He doesn't see the same people anymore, and rightly so. The fact is, they aren't the same anymore, and that's fair, neither is he. So...
Frustration begins to eat at him. Not directed at anyone or anything specific, but just a general frustration. The deeply maddening kind that runs rampant through the mind simply because it has no direction. No target.
He quietly excuses himself from the table. He won't let them see him cry. It will just confuse them.
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