Tears of Clear

Tears are clear for a reason, because no one likes to cry, and no one likes to see them. But the tears have a funny way of letting others know they've passed the soft cheeks below the green, brown, blue and grey.

A few weeks, maybe a month ago I dedicated a letter to a man by the name of Brent Markos. Regrettably I'm dedicating another one to him, to, more than likely, never be seen by anyone. Tuesday, May 25th, 2004, Markos died in a car accident, barely three weeks after his father died of heart related problems. As it happened, I was one of the first to know, funny this life is. Details have yet to be released of the accident, who was at fault, why and how. All I've been told is that he ran a red light and was struck, taken to hospital and died at about a quarter to two in the morning.

The news killed the school as our student fatality count this year was kicked up a notch. Five students have died this year, to my knowledge, two have been announced to the school. Last year I believe about the same number died, I only know this as my mother is a secretary at my school, and thus I am told some things that aren't confidential.

Markos was the President of the Visual Arts Council, a highly respected group that arranges the majority of school events. From what I've gathered of others he had too much going for him. He'd been accepted to the University of Toronto, a stick up the ass university, with no help but good grades and a drive to go places. I was told he was the head of another student faculty, Engineering or Architecture. I wish I could care. Two of my teachers were devastated, obviously, he was in my English class and never seemed to leave my Animation studio.

More cards, fucking pity cards. And I didn't sign one. Sorry man, but I have my own beliefs and doctrines to follow, and some of those don't allow me to sign away my sympathy to your family because either you dozed off or decided everything you were about to have wasn't good enough to live for. I have no more sympathy Brent, I wasted it all on myself years ago, and I'll bleed myself into the ocean before I inflict that feeling onto someone else.

Hearing what all you were after you passed on pushed buttons inside me to respect you, you had a lot, you worked hard for it and it could have been yours. Unfortunately for you, you won't live to see any of it come to fruition. But, as I've said to others, there is no use in dwelling on the past, nor can I afford to sacrifice my time worrying about someone who wouldn't about me, which I would be happy for, as I'd hurt every idiot who dared to dwell on my memory.

I don't proclaim to know him personally, so I won't complement by saying he would have wanted everyone to just move on and be happy knowing he's somewhere else. No, how he thinks is entirely up to him, or was.

On a final note, I would like to express my concern for Mrs. Markos, and her youngest, now oldest son. They have been through a lot, I only hope they can pull through, as people only deserve to die if you really want them too.

So long Markos, you had a good run. I'll see you in fifty or sixty years.