I find myself slightly troubled by a discrepancy in my life that is probably meaningful. I still think about my friends and wonder how they are doing, in fact still feel toward them warmth and a bit of happiness. Some of them have written to me in personable ways, and others sent small birthday wishes. I would like to chat with them, find out how they are doing, let them know that I still think of them, keep the connection. And yet I don't call or write.

I know that I don't have much time. I turn my phone off at work. I'm not going to call people at midnight. I usually have business to fill my time between jobs on days that I work morning and night. I usually have a book to write, a dinner to cook, errands to run. I often make plans that involve spending all my free time running around doing something. But seriously, shouldn't I find time to call people here and there in the middle of all that? I know that saying, "Lara finds time to write people and call people," is a bad example because she's more motivated than most people I know. But I'm one of the few people I know that doesn't find time to contact friends.

And so, do I really care, if I don't make time for my friends? You see, I spent the good part of my earlier life unable to spend time with people. I consoled myself, if that's the correct phrase, with the fact that I made good use of the time that I did spend with them. We weren't together often, but when we were, we were close. I think that somewhere along the line, that became more than a consolation, that now I tell myself that I'm close to my friends, that when we talk, we're great friends. I can't be there for them very often, but I always answer when they call, and I listen when they talk, and I try to make sure we have fun when we go out together. But am I just a crazy person talking to himself in a dark room, unaware that he's alone? Do my friends say, "Yah, David and I are good friends," or do they say, "He's cool, but I never hear from him, so whatever, that's how he is?"

My relationship with Lara has redefined many things for me. For example, it wasn't that I wanted to move out to Florida with her. I mean, I did, but it was a need more than a want. I couldn't show her how I felt without moving for her, and I couldn't be the person whom she was dating without actually being there. More important than the time I spend with her is the attention I pay to her. We've even written each other a couple of actual letters, even while living right here near each other. My lack of attention for her, or hers for me, would represent a lessening of our affection for each other. Because that's who we are.

Doesn't it make sense that that should apply to everyone in my life? And if so, there are only two possible conclusions. One is that I have no room in my heart for full or even adequate affection for anyone other than her. That I am person either small of heart or frigid of heart without the ability to be a true friend to anyone. The other possibility is that I am a hateful person with no desire for true friends, that I dislike people so much that I am incapable of being moved to full or even adequate affection for them. Neither state is one that I would like or approve in myself, and yet, I seem to accept the fact that I don't call people or email people, the only proof of my affections.

But how can either case be true? I am kind and patient with friends and coworkers and strangers alike, so how could I possibly hide enough poisonous hatred within me, even from myself, that would prevent me from having affection for my friends? And in the other case, I frequently try to think of ways to surprise, help or cheer my friends, ease the work or stress of others, feel guilt when I am careless or thoughtless or selfish enough not to help someone when it was within my power. How can my heart and mind hold all that and be too small or cold for true affection?

What other off-the-wall possibilities are there? Perhaps I am a coward, afraid of encouraging or supporting friendships with anything other than the solid earthen foundations upon which they are built, afraid of building them up or raising them for fear that they will tumble down upon me. How is that cowardice possible when I am fearless in meeting people, shameless in allowing them to know me, insatiable in trying to get to know them? Perhaps I am elitist and aloof, not scorning the physical or mental company of anyone, but rejecting their emotional company. How is this possible when I still feel far below any sort of highground, whether moral, intellectual, emotional or whatnot.

I don't know. In my brain I care about you, my friends. In my heart, I believe that I care. But where are the words from my lips, the letters from my pen, the characters from my keyboard? I tell myself that I'll write. Often I even want to call. And then I don't. And I have no good excuse. What does it mean? Does it mean that I don't care? Does it mean that I am incapable of caring?