Blind Strike











{January 7, 2008}  

There is life all around me. From my window on the fourth story I hear voices in a language I do not recognize, vaguely French or South African, laughing at jokes; a woman moans loudly and her cries echo through the alley below, up between two tall buildings filled with windows, each one a gateway into loss.

Jason, it has been a month since you left us, since the thought of you became so filled with pain I can hardly face. There have been holiday parties, fights, love, disappointment, tenderness. Since a man you would have tried to help took your life. I feel pain knowing you can no longer experience these emotions, and guilt knowing that I still can. I have imagined it many times, you rolling down your window, on instinct greeting a stranger with a smile. And the rest I can’t quite bring myself to type.

If you are in a better place, this world is relatively not so good. And if there is bliss where you are now, if there is comfort, then my life will amount to a negative comparison for bliss and comfort. And isn’t that depressing? I wonder what you would have thought of that. Because you believed in things, or at least you wanted to, and you found peace and comfort in this world through your faith in the next one. I am a masochist, then, clinging to life. Maybe that’s why only some of the best people I’ve known have died in this way, a victim of circumstance, out of control.

I want to hurt knowing you’re gone. I don’t want to forget it and turn the page, but I know I will. I won’t forget you, but it will cease to burn so fiercely, and for this I feel guilt also, preemptively. You see I want to mourn you, Jason, I want to say your name and bring you back. I want to see you pitching softball again and cheer you on from first base. I want to make the out when I catch your throw. I want to relive the time you ran all the way from the mound to first base because you tripped out and wouldn’t throw it, or the time you stopped pitching and asked the bleachers to give you some love if they wanted the game to go on. I want to see Matt running out to hug you, everyone laughing and clapping as he runs back to the stands.

I wish I could redo Thanksgiving, when you wanted to talk about writing program drama and I shut down the conversation because talking about those things made me too mad. What would you have said? I’ll never know. I collect thoughts of you, each one a pinprick reminding me I am alive, and I suffer, I love, I regret. I am writing and you are not, I am breathing and you are not, I will meet new people and lose many more beautiful friends. It is all so depressing. Except your mark on this world is real. You have created miracles. I have begun to do the things that will improve my fortune, the things I was holding back on changing. You are gone now and it reminds me not to wait, there is no time to waste, no fear greater than facing that moment you have faced. No sleep deeper than the dream I wake in.

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