Regular Repetition of the Unrequited

These people.

These people, I see them all the time.

If not every day (which I do with most of them), then at least several times a week.

A lot of them I'd dearly love to be good friends with.

A lot, though most decidedly far from all.

I'm not sure if this is because they are deserving, because I don't have many friends in the area, have very few who share our quite specific interests and desires, because they are the people I see so frequently or simply because I've previously been accustomed to being so popular in an environment such as this.

Nonetheless, that desire for friendship is most unequivocally unrequited.

And, as I guess is normal with those who don't find their desire for friendship reciprocated, I'm unfortunately growing to quite despise them. That kind of spite that could so easily be uprooted and quashed in an instant if one iota of genuine friendship were demonstrated, but none ever is.

After so much time, a sensible individual would leave the unhappy environment and pursue pastures of a greener nature. But a depression such as mine is want for such masochism. Desirous of such quotidian, self-inflicted internal pain.

And so I return, while plethora alternative locations are available. A depression such as this is incapable of accepting that the acquisition of said individuals' friendship is an idiot's goal: Not only highly unlikely, but, though it be a possibility, an ill treasure to seek. A fool's gold, the alchemist's dross, an obviously august prize, undesirable to those with wit and health enough to see it.

I seem capable of setting their beauty. Either they are incapable of seeing mine or I have none.