Thursday, April 23, 2015

in memory: you were the opposite of ostentatious, you were Austintatious - a Capital guy to know in this state of my life

A letter to a friend who will unfortunately never be able to read it:

Dear brother, dear old friend,

I didn’t think I would be writing you under these circumstances. To be honest, it never would have crossed my mind as a possibility. I suppose that should be educational in itself?

I hoped (probably better described as “expected”) to check in with you again, sometime a few years out of college so that I could hear how well you would be doing - working at some international firm, with a girlfriend who entertains the ideas of marriage in your mind. Whether I would react with pure joy or react with a tinge of jealousy, I would at least have the certain satisfaction of knowing that you would be a guy who deserved it.

I remember and hold on to the memory that the last thing I said to you - as I moved away from our shared domicile to a place that I know was a healthier environment for my companion and I at a trying time - was that I had the good fortune and decency to let you know that I respect you, despite juvenile drama at the time.

During my first year at a school where I knew no one, you had the approachability of engaging with an old friend when talking with me who (was then a stranger) – a quality I subconsciously use to differentiate friends from friends I would genuinely like to take after.

I’ll admit that when we lived together, the discrepancies in our living preferences led me to stress and even to act inexcusably dickish (I’m sorry) – but that doesn’t change that I still hold respect for who you are and your living memory. I wouldn’t live with some of my best friends for similar reasons.

You are the first person I know to have truly been not merely waving but drowning. I can’t claim that if we had talked about your dire state that the communication could have been a panacea by any means, but I still wish we had chatted between our last encounter and when you left us. I’ve been sailing on Black Waters for some time as well - perhaps our journeys would have been a bit easier to bear if we had a comrade to correspond with about the unfair waves.
Since you’ve left, I’ve come to understand a little more about loss(“No you don’t, Steven, you’ll never know””I’ll try”), and more about what is behind someone choosing to leave this world. I heard a story about a suicide attempt, where the friend of the person asked him why he was provoked to walk in front of that truck. “Isn’t the excruciating pain enough of a deterrent?” the friend asked, to which the man who attempted suicide responded: “yes, it was painful, but not as painful as the feeling that made me walk in front of the truck in the first place.”

Your departure helped prompt me to better examine how navigable my own waters were. I know you must have been suffering more, or perhaps were less selfish in coping(statement about me, not about suicide), but I still wish I could have pointed out that you settled on a permanent solution for temporary problems.

Your ‘memorials’ are shrouded with the false mythologies you told me that you rejected. This might have annoyed you a little bit – but I know you would have come to the all-reaching truth that whatever approach someone has to navigating the ocean is okay, so long as it is well-intended. People will turn to anything to feel a little connection again with those they lost.

You should know - friends of yours, better than I, have started yearly celebrations that both celebrate your memory and support the causes you championed. No matter how you might have evaluated your life when you left, you have currently accomplished something better than the highest palace in heaven – your life is making direct impressions on the universe. Like ink in water it is inevitable – your impression will swirl around in all directions, until time will forever have the stamp of your existence. You live eternal, my friend.

Before I say a final goodbye, I wanted to tell you how I remember something you taught me. Back in college, when my cross-country running discipline was stronger, you told me about the tradition of Cherokee warriors who in long-distance treks would hold water in their mouths to carefully stave off dehydration. Every time I practice that while running, I think of you. And I can’t help but extend the tale into a larger metaphor – I believe that you would encourage me to keep running through the desert, ready to bear much, like the camel. I mourn that our paths will not cross again.

Sincerely,

The worst best roommate,


Steven

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