When I heard it, it felt almost funny to me. He hadn't died. He couldn't die. This was some kind of joke. It's a really awful one, yeah, but still a joke.
It wasn't a joke. It was real. That set in right after. It wasn't funny anymore. It felt like I was grasping at threads. The book I was holding was forgotten. He couldn't be dead, could he? The man I looked up to for the last few years?
No. That had to be someone else. They must've gotten the name wrong. They had to have.
He couldn't die.
He wasn't supposed to.
Ever since that day, the reality of life has been starting to hit me. It feels like a blade trying to slit my throat. I can feel little pieces of me slipping away.
Every day since, I'm trying to do something to make me feel alive and gain back the pieces that seem to be leaving me. It isn't working. I feel like I'm just working. I feel like I'm only really living through my writing.
I want to be able to actually live and enjoy it. But right now, it feels so hard to enjoy life. It's hard for me to live on like everything is okay when, honestly, it really feels like parts of me drift every day.
It's leaving chips in my heart. It stings.
I want to hide everything that upsets me away from everyone else. I don't want them to see the worst of it. It works sometimes. Mainly around the people who never got the chance to meet him.
If we are friends through him, we just randomly start crying to each other.
This man was someone who anyone could have seen as a brother. He always took love thy neighbor as thyself seriously. He was there for everyone. Every single person. It wouldn't have mattered who you were.
I miss him.
I really do.
I wish that peices of me weren't buried with him so that maybe I wouldn't have to pretend everything's alright and hunky dory.
I want him back.
