Author: Anarchist Poet PM
thoughts on the death of a friend not really fiction unfortunately. i guess i'm posting it here because he can't read it now but you can.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 656 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 08-18-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2561110
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"we lost him."
We lost him? Lost him where? Can we find him? Oh. You mean…
Silence then crying crying crying, hands reaching out to each other, the need for human contact, bodies huddled together, clinging to each other, nails digging into my skin, everybody too close and too far away at the same time. This sense of dissociation from my body involved in some absurd, chaotic mourning, my mind floating up and watching from above, thinking: Who would of known people could cry so hard for so long? Why haven't our tears flooded this room yet? I can picture it, the salt water slowly collecting on the floor, rising until it swallowed us whole, cutting off our oxygen, letting us be with him again…
In afterlife? What the fuck? That seems so silly, dead is dead. And dying for some cause, some big idea, that's the same as dying for nothing, the end result is the same, the end is nothing. I guess the living remember.
I'll always remember you. and your beautiful music, the way you could make a guitar say so many things at once, and when I closed my eyes and listened I could taste my first kiss and feel the wind on my face like I'm riding my bike, but then it's the wind created when a door is slammed in your face, then that anger surging in my bones, the energy of a clenched fist, your songs somehow binding all these things together in some twisted way, soaring up and crashing down, challenging, laughing in my face, fucking up everything I had believed before, making the earth beneath me shake. Given two options you always had to create a third, you never settled, you never gave up or gave in, you always pushed us to new heights and it was crazy and scary and so fucking beautiful
I'll remember the night I met you, me being unfriendly, sitting in the corner with my guitar. You strolled over to me, and I knew you right then man, how could I not, all the stories they told, starting with "this one time kyle…" you were a fucking legend. Me playing that Bob Dylan song, you nodding your head and starting to sing along, and together we called out those masters of war, and soon the rest of the room was humming along, and when it was over you leaned against the wall next to me, half-smiling, saying "hey kid, you're pretty good, we should jam some time." You have no idea how much that meant to me right then. You have no idea how much you meant to me, how I hung on to every word you said to me, every song you sung. Why the fuck didn't I tell you?
I miss you.
I've been trying to figure it out, why you did the things you did, why you died. Trying to organize it, put it all into some neat and easy format, two columns, pros and cons, causes and effects, anything to make my head stop spinning. I know you'd think it's bullshit, but I need things to make sense. This is what I've come up with:
You refused to accept the reality that was handed to you, you saw too many flaws in the way you were expected to live, so you chose something else. And maybe your way still made no sense, maybe it was wrong in it's own way, wrought with it's own hypocrisies, maybe it wqas shortsighted and ultimately pointless, but it was something different, and for a little while it made you achieve something I think could safely be called happiness, and maybe more importantly, a sense of meaning in your life and a feeling of moving forward.
You could never have lived a life of clean white hospital rooms.