I wonder, do we all sit at our computers, conjuring up words of wisdom in hopes that someone stumbles across them? Hey, we could all be the next Hemingway--if the words would just come out right, dammit!
And there are some who can't find the right words at all. No matter how hard they try, they feel like they're doing nothing more than tilting at windmills. Rash decisions are made, leaving those left behind wondering why? Was there something we missed, could've done--how did we fail our friend that he felt there was no other way out? In our grief, making vain attempts to understand, we make his death about us--how could he have done this, hurt us all this way? Didn't he know we loved him? That we were there to help him? Maybe he thought he'd accepted enough charity. After all, a man has nothing if not his pride. The reality is his death is about him, and unless one of us has ever swam in his depths of despair, we can't understand why anyone would choose to check out early. I guess it's when that final ray of hope disappears, when that light at the end of the tunnel is the oncoming train, misery envelopes you like a shroud......maybe that's the moment of clarity. Sad thing, we'll never know. He will, but then again, his death is about him.
Our friend has been missing since Sept. 13th. Early this evening they pulled the body of an unidentified male out of the water in the Saanich Inlet. With all my being I want, no I need, to believe it's not him. I'm afraid to type his name yet. It'll make seem final, and as long as he's missing, he could be anywhere, right? Right?
In my heart I know he's become Comfortably Numb.
Then I cry...........
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