People say, “well if they don’t care. Then why, why should I care?”

I say if I don’t care, why should anyone care?


Sometimes the language barriers between thought and feeling – especially when you’re trying to come to one blended of the the two, one reaction – are so irreconcilable that your understanding of things, especially the things that matter, at the times that matter, becomes too ambiguous to come up with any resolution or reaction at all. Death for me is difficult to process – disassociative, shocking, foreign. I stand silent, pretending to feel no pain so nobody ever realizes that I am, deeply, while inside I couldn’t possibly feel any more different. My brain knows the definition of death, but no other part of me does.

Maybe I’m the only one – I’m the only one for a lot of things so it doesn’t bother me much anymore; but there are some people in your life that are above death. They are demigods – immortal. It makes me feel like a huge dick telling people this, but I don’t notice many people. Not that everybody isn’t special to somebody, but for me, they blend in, plain, dull; there’s nothing I find intriguing. The people that I’m referencing to in this post are brilliant antithesises of my boredom. I see them. And they are my people. Regardless of how well articulated, cold and clinical, my brain comprehends the concept of death… my heart feels it’s a lie, insanity that I didn’t sign up for, but something that I can do absolutely nothing about. It cannot, will not, flat out refuses, to understand and accept it. It’s blasphemy, as impossible to me as dreams are for the jaded.

I had my first panic attack when I was 7 years old. I burst into tears, in too much anguish for my age, crying to my mother that because I was the youngest, I was going to die last – be forced to watch death come ripping through My life. I learned to cope with this by prophesying with the same conviction as the founders of every established religion that I will die first; be brave and go first, wait wherever I am after until it’s time to guide all of us to our next existence, whatever that is like. 

Together with everyone I have ever loved.

I lost my grandfather.

My friend’s body was found in November. He was murdered.

A dear friend and personal hero died day before last.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Today would have been the birthday of a family friend. 

Perhaps instead of a chance to brace myself, I got sickly surprise. In truth no amount of preparation that I could get for the death of one of my own could really prepare me for a pain worse than pain, a complete mutilation of the heart. There’s more to it than blood not pumping, a brain not sparking. It’s the loss of a significant part of your soul, and theirs. A hero of mine, a constant of mine, now a giant. All of them giants really – of the highest quality, order, and kind, surpassing all others; supreme. 

When you’re young, thunderstorms seem scary.

Like the sky is angry at you.

But now that I’m older, something about its roar comforts me; it’s comforting to know that even the sky needs to scream sometimes.