Maybe because I always look for what we could have. My father told me once, when I was young „Son, your friends are the fingers and often, all your remaining fingers.” Since then I wonder met: that they be my real friends?
Perhaps I should not trust anyone from the people I’ve met? I do not know how to find out who my real friends are.
Or have people looking for me to get together or who wake up when sleeping?
Or as people who support me when I’m sad or those who make me see my mistakes, although not my liking?
Or have people congratulate me for my birthday and celebrate with me all night or those with a simple phone call make me feel better?
Or as people who are there whenever I need them, or those who, despite their absence, I have loved the most?
Are they people who talk about my secret loves, or those who are on stilts as a great conqueror without any reason?
Those who tell me that all is well or those who contradict me and make me see evil?
Those who lend me money when I need, or who refuses me knowing how I’m going to use?
Those who greet me and hug me when they see me or those I get with a sincere smile and a handshake?
Those who answer everything I ask them or those without them require, cry me what happened?
Those who tell me they love me and those who with a smile, transmit much more than that?
Those not argue with those who never or sometimes upset me?
The truth is that there are a lot of kinds of friends, but I count on those who, although knowing my feelings, my thoughts, my imagination, my joys, my successes and failures, and trust me, especially, I accept it they are, without judgment and reproaches, which simply mean … look, over there is my friend.