Tonight I’m thinking about my Chicago friends. The windy-city-crew was there for me through black eyes and bad luck. When times were bad, they held the net taut and ensured I wouldn’t crash into the pavement. When times were good, they shared grins and laughs for free and without reservation. Friends come and go because friendships require face time and life changes so fast that sometimes we can’t put in the hours. But the good friends, the ones that love you, stay with you forever even if it’s only in your heart.
It leaves me melancholy and tired and, because I’m a writer, wondering what kind of story it would make. The subject is more theme than conflict, I suppose. Stories driven by theme make boring reading, so I don’t want to explore it in that context. Maybe I could write about a guy who goes back to his roots, to where he had the best friends of his life, and tries to recapture that sense of belonging and acceptance? It might be a good story… Need to sleep on it and flesh it out.
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