I found it.
Long ago I found out that a certain best friend of mine had a blog.
I asked what's the name of the blog so that I could follow, but she refused.
I insisted.
She refused.
I insisted.
She's reluctant.
Aren't we best friends? I don't normally insist this much, but because we are best friends and I really want to see your skills. I want to see it so bad.
I could feel her extreme reluctance as she uttered the name of the blog.
A couple of days later, the blog was abandoned. No further update, no published contents.
Deleted.
All that was left behind was an empty shell of a once lively blog. I could imagine how much fun she had when the blog was still alive.
She said she was busy during that time so she could not update the blog regularly, but then why did she deleted all existed contents?
Did I ruined the fun?
Did I step into her personal area?
I was the reason, was I not?
I found it.
Minutes ago I found out that a certain best friend of mine had another blog.
It's a blog full of interesting writings by her. I could not believe my eyes as I read them.
I never knew she had such talent and skills to write this well.
I could even say mine's an unworthy particle of dust, and hers a star hidden in the night.
She had it.
She secretly had it all along.
The blog is her comfort zone.
It is where she can be herself, without worries that someone might see.
And I must not enter.
It doesn't matter if we're best friends; everyone has personal matters.
But why am I hurt?
Why do I feel pain?
Come and think of it, I've never been there.
Everyone his, or her, group of best friends.
The stayed together, had fun together, talked with each other since day one up until now.
I had none.
I did not have any groups. All I had was temporary groups for work purposes.
I had never been there.
What if my best friends were nothing more than a mere illusion set by me to trap myself in?
We were good friends, but never best friends.
I was a good friend, but never a best friend.
Was I even a good friend?
Am I left out all along?
I wasn't there, ain't there, and probably won't ever be there.
Sometimes I'm scared of myself. I looked so happy, but why am I writing such bitterness?
I look so happy when I'm with friends, yet when I confront my own self, I'm bitter.
I
What is it that is behind "I"?
Who am I?
