friends - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
My friends are not the perfect, or the neat or the tidy... my friends are those with enough love in their hearts to fight for and defend what is right and good. So come with those frayed edges and scratches, because what counts is still holds a steady rhythm within.
Your friendship is the soft colours of nature, the delicate browns and the sky that deeps to show us the stars, it is an earthiness that lasts a lifetime.
There is no fine whisky in fine lounges or among those celebrated on pedestals that can match the smallest speck of this joy that is my friends. For no matter the weather or the place I find myself in, it is there within me and I am warm.
You are the friends who believe in me, you believe in any wind or in the face of any rumour. You are the ones who make the cradle for my soul, the very fabric that keeps me warm. And so I thank the universe and every star above that we have made our way together, that our life paths are woven so intricately.
You are the friends who come as freely as birdsong and bring out the dance of my soul. Here, in the bliss of your smiles and companionship, I am free.
In this black night I am your ninja queen and you are the only light my eyes are drawn to. You are the friend who sees my spark and comes closer, loving me for who I am. The rain is slick on the ground, so dark as to only be seen by reflected street-lamps, and the sky is a painting in a million shades of grey. I tell you of my worries, you say everything is okay. And then once more I am the most soft version of myself. You talk of aliens, of God, of movies. I just love to hear your voice. So friend, know that you have a piece of my heart, and I will protect yours.
To the friends I have loved and lost,
Friendship is a form of love and I always love in full measure. If I call you friend, I am saying I love you. Love means taking the good times and the hard times. It means standing by the other in times of heartbreak, easing their pain, seeing them for the human being that they are. If bearing witness to their losses and grief is all you can offer, then you offer and hold your own discomfort as a marker of your own good character. All true love requires sacrifice of the self to be real. How else do we show that our friendship is more than words? Love requires action.
To love a friend means that in their stormy seas you would not only climb into their boat just to be with them, but that you would become the boat, keep their head above the water. When my time came to drown you left me, knowing that there were times I felt my own body to be a cage, that I struggled to live and breathe. As such you magnified my pain and I came to feel worthless. I would have run through fire for any one of you at just one request, one asking. I loved you with all my heart, soul and being. The love that is friendship is accepting, compassionate, unconditional, without judgement and eternal. It accepts that people make errors and forgives, it endures. Yet there comes a time to protect the self, end the hurting. I wish you plain sailing; I wish you love and good health; I wish you true happiness for your lifetimes. You leave with a kiss.
Though I have been through hell, there was one who rode with me all the way, another who came whenever called, and two who would have gladly come and stayed. That's four. Four true friends. I guess I am luckier than most because that's real love and I love them back will all my heart, like I always did, like I loved you too.
It was that kind of friendship that blooms in the center of your heart - that kind of friendship that grows from the seed basking in the warm soil to a vast tree with many ups and downs, many - but not enough to disguise the enormity or the grandeur of such a tree, the sheer brilliance and beauty of it.
She had a kind of brutal honesty that tested most friendships, but I appreciated it. I always knew where I stood with her. And she was generous to a fault, both with her time and her possessions. I got the feeling that she had few friends and so her loyalty to those who stuck with her was fierce. Some friends are for a reason, some are for a season and some are for life. She was for life. I loved her.
He'd always stick up for me in front of others, even when he knew I was wrong. Then privately he'd let me know what he really thought and how I should have behaved differently, who I should apologize to, how to avoid repeating the mistake. I listened to him because he listened to me. Sometimes he could loose his temper and be a right prat, then it would be my turn with the sage advice. We were friends no matter what.
If I was sad he'd just offer me a beer and a spot on his couch. Then we'd play nintendo until our fingers blistered. When I was ready, we'd talk about it. He always listened without judgement and never commented until I'd spun my heart out. Then he would put down his beer, look me in the eye and give me advice like the brother I never had. He never mocked unless I needed a good kick up the butt. He never told a soul even a hint of what we discussed, he was a black hole for gossip, a true friend, one of a kind.
All day long I've been sitting at this desk, paper work piling higher and higher. Save the trees, huh? I don't think the managers here have ever heard of that. The clock ticks on the wall and I swear it's slowing down. Sitting here alone makes me flatter than a week old glass of coke. Every time I don't have to think about the task at hand I'm already dancing, dancing in the club to music so loud it makes me deaf. I won't be alone either, the whole gang is coming. With that music, that beat, those crazy, crazy lights I know I'm alive, I'm real, and reality is awesome. By the end of the night I'm quite drunk, I should cut back but who's counting? We leave arm in arm, wobbling down the lamp-lit alley to hail a cab. The next day I check out the photos and laugh my ass off. Those girls are so precious. They get me through. I love'em.
When the snow hit it was hard and unforgiving. Against it their bodies bent and snapped like the fragile beings they were. A hundred pounds of human vs a hundred tonnes of snow wasn't a fair fight. Before a cry could escape their lungs they were encased, packed in tight. Their body heat fled into the snow barely melting a crystal and their hearts slowed. After a time the pain stopped. High above them the digging had begun. The transponders had them ten feet down and the crew dug like it was their own lives that depended on it. Friends were friends, and their deaths would take a little bit of everyone with them. Under the brilliant sun it was almost hard to believe the emergency under their boots, and no-one wanted to either. But a few seconds either way meant recovery of slipping away. The shovels became almost a blur and no-one spoke unless it was a grunt; the snow flew in shimmering arcs and the hole grew larger at their feet.
Under the moonlight the avenue lay still. The heat of the day had been replaced by a cool breeze and Tom sauntered under the trees with a sweater dangling from his arm. He moved between the pools of streetlight, feet almost silent of the sidewalk still wet from the spring rain. A pair of headlights came bouncing over the hill, blinding him temporarily before passing and disappearing. The pub would already be packed with his friends and he was eager to get there. A live band, soft lighting and jokes so stupid they were brilliant.
Some people never escape their childhoods, not really. It's like a part of them just doesn't feel safe in the adult world. Joanne was like that, always in clothes that never showed her shape and prints that would be more suited to a teenager or younger. She had a thing about "Hello Kitty," often wearing it on her shirts or bag. Always her hair was in a pony-tail and her face was free of make-up. Sometimes we'd hook up for lunch and go to the canteen, it simply wasn't worth the trouble to try to take her to a bar. Always the conversation turned to horses, to soup recipes and musicals. She was the most childlike adult I'd ever met, but talking to her was so refreshing. She lacked the guile and complexity of my other friends, what you saw was what she was.
Every time I was around Gary my head span faster than a helicopter blade. The person I saw depended on who he was talking to and what he wanted. He could be everything from bad-ass to vulnerable, albeit with a new story of each new situation. He had an infinite number of childhoods; his parents were happy, divorced, fighting, abusive or dead. His Dad had been a banker, a road digger, a burglar or unemployed. His mother had been a drunk, a politician, a Sally-home-baker or a tart. He was an only child, the last of eight, brought up in a foster home or the heir to a fortune. Part of me wanted to walk away, but I was the only one he could tolerate. Why? Because I never asked to see behind his ever changing disguise. Inside that body was a kid, a kid locked in at some emotional age far younger than his twenty-something exterior. I'll never know what happened to him, but whatever it was it just stopped his development at that age. It's a one-way friendship, I know, but he needs someone...
The rabbit in Todd's yard is as about as far removed from a wild bunny as I am from Einstein. It just sits there eating, ignoring us "predators" as we approach. It's so round I laugh, "That is one fat hopper!" Todd grins and opens the hatch to put in more carrots.
"Yeah, man. Like you can talk. How many tonnes is that mutt of yours? Anyway, in the zombie apocalypse I can eat her. What's your excuse?" He has a point, Sandy is a barrel on legs. But he's not getting off that easy. I make a grimace, like I just hate to tell him the truth.
"You know a football with fur'd be more attractive. Maybe if we just cut the ears off..."
Todd looks at me, face screwed up like he's got some internal debate going on. "I think you'd look better without a face, how about we take that off before we do surgery on Lisa's rabbit?"
I nod grimly. "You're right. We should. But I'd hate for you to be left out. Let's improve your odds in next weeks math test by giving you the rabbit's brain..."
Steve was there like a shadow until you needed him. Then suddenly he was unavailable. His ready smile was only for those who gave freely and didn't require any help in return. Once the personal crisis was over he'd re-emerge from the crowds and re-insert himself into the group, cracking the jokes everyone loved and paying them for their company in his favourite “currency”- gossip. He knew the dirt on everyone, including you, and if you weren't his buddy he'd be free with that information to whoever his new friends were. With him or against him, it's how it was. I chose to hate him and keep him closer than a lover; the best friend I'd choose to eat first in any survival situation.
We just met the person. How can they become such a “sudden enemy?” We write this person off immediately. Before we know anything beyond what our eyes tell us, before they speak one word, we think there is no way we could tolerate this guy/girl, let alone socialize. We lump them into a certain unlikable type, and maybe they in turn, place us into a derogatory category. This is purely from appearance, face features, eyes too close or too far apart. Or It’s about the hair, or it may be the choice of clothes because many decide on issues of fashion or at least they believe they do. At any rate, we have already made up our minds that this is “a sudden enemy.” We all understand. Many times I have sized a person up, and dismissed any chance of friendship. Then, I find I am totally wrong. You think you know, and surprise - my “first impressions” are often my “worst impressions.” When I first met one of my good friends, it was offensive being on the same planet with him. I wanted to tell him, “Get off my planet!” I saw him as loud, wordy, and pushy, all mouth and no brains. We became friends, and I discovered he was true friend, and he had my back always After we became friends, he told me he also had his nasty vocabulary for me, and wanted me off “his planet.” Every so often, we revert to our former names for each other – in jest. Well, I think it is in jest.
In the movie theatre auditorium there's a buzz of excited talk. Children on tiptoe stare at the popping machines, grinning for their salty snack. I know the profits from the popcorn are the lifeblood of the movie theatre industry, but as a student I have my clandestine snack in my oversized combat pants. I'm usually here for the action adventure hollywood movies, the ones packed with the sexy celebrities, but not tonight. I'm trying to impress a new girl so we're here for a retro classic. The lobby is swarming, fast moving, until she steps into the doors. Then time stops. My stomach turns unhelpfully and I feel my skin turn clammy. She lights up into a smile and what can I do but follow suit, if she is the sun then I am the moon. I have the tickets ready so all there is to do is slip my hand in hers and listen to her “guess what?” story as we stroll to the auditorium.
At first glance, Tate seemed like the kind of guy you hired to kill your husband: leather jacket, dusty tank top, bandanna, multiple gory tattoos, a stupid vintage pickup he drove, smoked in and blasted heavy metal from. If a stranger ever spoke to him, his dry wit supported their prejudices. But that’s not the man that I knew.
I knew the Tate who sent you smiles so bright you could see them from across the Pacific Ocean and whose thoughtfulness warmed your heart. I knew the Tate who broke out his guitar at 8am to have what he called a “living room concert”. I was best friends with the man whose sky blue eyes sparkled like those of a child in a candy store and whose laugh was so contagious you often found yourself breathless in his presence.
Tate was the kind of guy who would drag you out of the house in the middle of the night to get a greasy snack, who spent hours sketching the same thing until he got it right and, most of all, he was the kind of friend who never failed to distract you from your everyday worries.
If I dwell on memories of old friends, there is warmth. If I think of their eyes there is love. If I hear old words of the past there is comfort and safe harbour. People say that pain lives in the past, that we can choose to let it go. Yet the void between us old friends will always feel painful because I will always keep the door open, feel the chill winter wind, in the hope of change. I believe that the salvation of others exists in how they treat us, and ours in how we treat them. We are drawn to forgive because we were blessed to know their hearts when the sun shone, and we mourn to see them move into the shadow of indifference, into the slumber of the soul. I pray that they find a way back to the light, back to love without frontiers or the poison of judgement.
That rug, that stupid old filthy rug, had seen more dancing shoes than a ballroom. It was where we twirled, everyone with everyone, the music escaping from every open window and door. Once the colour of cherries, now it told an earthy tale of love and laughter, of more good times than anyone is ever promised. I could have replaced it, brought in another, but instead we hauled it to the river in good weather and washed it as best we could.