My friend is dead. This fact sits in the air that surrounds me. It’s hard to write about because its everywhere. I’m not sure how to feel or how to describe what I am feeling. I know this is an odd thing to post about. My first blog post and this is what I want to write about but can’t.
My friend is dead. I feel like a leech because the entire time he was dying I kept getting ideas. I am a writer. Sadly I am inspired all the time in all circumstances. My writing partner and I are working on a piece involving death. His death gave me many ideas this felt weird and wrong.
My friend is dead. I don’t like using phrases like “past on” or “at rest”. He died of cancer. There was nothing peaceful about it. Nothing sweet or nice. And now he’s gone. Dead. He’s family was from a different state so I won’t get to go to a funeral. It’s hard to realize that he’s really gone. I keep passing his desk. It feels unreal because other than a calendar that stops in November it looks as he left it. The theatre where he worked and I work on occasion will be hiring someone to fill his position soon. I am certain I will like this person but terrified of them sitting in that desk.
My friend is dead. I didn’t know him that well but it hurts. I feel like the middle-eastern tradition of wailing is the only honest way to address a death of a loved one. I am Native American and at funerals there are specific things that everyone does. Roles to be filled. There is crying but only for a time. At the one white funeral I have attended everyone was so composed. The family members sat quietly crying. I want to wail.
My friend is dead. No matter how hard I try to talk about it, about him, it feels off. I feel like I’m talking around the subject. About me. About large societal expectations. About greater philosophical questions. Eventually I will run out of things and all that will be left is the simple fact.
My friend is dead.