Empty

I am thinking at these times, we fall back into the zone, John, back under the spell of wondering about you, why you went and where you might be now and how we are still feeling the hurt nearly two years on.

Mr LaMontagne expresses it perfectly:-


I never learned to count my blessings, I choose instead to dwell in my disasters.
I walk on down the hill, through grass, grown tall and brown
And still its hard somehow to let go of my pain.

On past the busted back of that old and rusted Cadillac that sinks into this field, collecting rain.
Will I always feel this way ?
So empty, so estranged.

And of these cut-throat busted sunsets, these cold and damp white mornings
I have grown weary.
If through my cracked and dusted dime-store lips I spoke these words out loud
Would no one hear me ?


Well I looked my demons in the eyes,laid bare my chest, said "Do your best, destroy me.
You see, I've been to hell and back so many times, I must admit you kind of bore me."

There's a lot of things that can kill a man, there's a lot of ways to die,
Listen, some already did that walked beside me.

There's a lot of things I don't understand,
Why so many people lie.
Its the hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me.
Will I always feel this way ?
So empty, so estranged.


Well ?

Mean Streets

Your favourite movie of all time - along with any other of Italian gangster genre populated by Pacino, Pesce et al.

It always seemed fairly evident to me having seen the movie why it should be entitled so - then I started reading around the grief and loss I felt when you left and I discovered the man: CS Lewis, a scholar and writer of note.

He tells us about the world being a "mean street replete with human squalor"; I'd like to add to that a further thought:- replete with human squalor and emotional bankrupts. Sounds about right to me.

I am back in the blog zone John, back here in the parallel universe where we spent a lot of time communing.

I think of the Mean Streets you inhabited and understand that you had a great deal to contend with; too much evidently. You sidestepped as much as you could, but every now and again you would trip over some of that paucity and unkindness. The more you encountered, the harder you tried to overcome it.

And you didn't.

You gave up on this.

We instead keep tripping through those mean streets.

Detritus

The stuff that gets left behind, the mess, the tangling, what needs to picked through and at some point swept up.

I am not sure it is that easy. How would we know where to start? I think about this legacy of sadness that you left - and how we still carry it with us.

I wonder how long it will be before we accept that we should not be defined by your death - and your suicide. At times it seems impossible - we cannot undo your passing and, certainly for me, it is almost such a large part of me and who I am that I cannot see a way forward.

I am mindful that there are few who could ever reach your benchmark - which is by definition stuck at the final point of its evolution - your death.

And so we continue John, with you in our hearts and a fear that we cannot, nor will not ever quite surmount the sad legacy of your passing.

We still miss you big man.

x