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survivre

I have friends, that much is true. I have close friends, that is also true. I know them, yes. Their names, certain aspects of their past, certain secrets, some inconsequential aspects of their current lives (where they stay, how old they are, what they’re doing in life), their faces, their voices. Those things about them I know: the things that I’d be able to know about anyone given a bit of time.

But do I really know them? Do I really know who they are exactly? What they like? What they’re like?

I don’t know. I think I do, but on certain occasions I cannot escape feeling that I don’t. That my life has been an example of how to get close to people without actually getting to know them, or at least feeling like I really know them. I can lay down on my bed with the lights off and say that, yes, I know A quite well and am close friends with B, but I can also lie down on my bed with the lights off and think about how little I actually know about A’s habits and likes, how I didn’t know he took up smoking until it was old, old news; about how little I know about B’s past and other aspects of his life away from the ever-peachy side he shows to me.

But we all have our secrets. It’s probably just me that’s been such a pathetic fuck about mine.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I don’t even know myself.

18/m/kelana jaya?

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