Foods and Friends

It's not a competition.

<You're throwing your chips in before you play the hand.>

No. It's not a contest to begin with.

It's a potluck.

<But everyone knows some dishes are better than others.>

No. It's each to their own taste.

I have my pallet, and others have theirs.

I can appreciate an addition without sampling or stacking.

The option don't have to have influence over each other.

<But there is only so much space in a stomach.>

That is true, but the stomach also empties with time.

Not now doesn't mean not ever.

<And what if the pallet changes?>

It has its reasons. They can be worked out.

Flavor is a complex phenomenon,

So a shift is rarely a true exclusion.

Potlucks taste better with friends anyways.

Archetypes

The Ghost 

The reminder of times past.

They can be friend or foe.

They may be overbearing,

But remember their memory is fed by the haunted.

The Yapper

The comedian.

They're the life of the room.

Perhaps you've known each other for ages.

You're drawn to their good nature,

But keep in mind the benefits of moderation. 

The Little

The unfiltered mirror.

You can count on their honesty.

They’re open to any topic,

But try not to fault them for ignoring social graces.

The Big

The wise one.

They feel like the compass in your life.

You can count on their input,

But think critically for they are imperfect like you.

The ESP

The rock.

They embody empathy and compassion.

They may be your Emotional Support,

But remember to also value their Personhood.

The Partner in Crime

The playful one.

They are easy to get along with.

They know how to boost your ego,

But beware their presence can be fleeting between missions.

The Circle

The true all-arounder.

They are adaptable and can go with the flow.

They may be the Jack of all trades,

But be careful not to pull them in too many directions at once.

Crystal Clear

Imagine a sphere. 

It's a simple transparent orb,

Except for the single spark within.

Move closer.

That lone spark scatters in all directions.

It scurries as if searching for an anchor,

But the smooth wall deflects it.

Reach out.

You place a finger on the orb.

The spark connects with you,

And the sphere appears clear once more.

Homesick

If I said I'm homesick,

Would I be believed?

Would it be said that

It seems I'm home already?

Would it be pointed out that home is

Mutable?

Maybe it is relative,

But I do not feel at home,

Just alone in an unfamiliar place.

I can forget about it.

I can distract myself.

But I can't erase it.

If home is where the heart is,

Is that a place

Or a feeling?

It doesn't matter.

I am homesick.

Strings

No strings attached? 

Bullshit.

There are always strings.

The question is only

What do they do?

They make a rope, or many.

Is the rope an intricate pattern

Traceable only by the drawers?

Is it a tangle of gnarls

Without an end in sight?

Is the rope a

Tool or

Trap?

What does it feel like?

Is it well worn?

Is it treated with care?

Is it soft or

Does it bite?

A leash

Or

Lifeline?