I don’t know where to begin. Fiction was your tool, and I struggle to hide between sheets of emotions, all too real. If ever there were a need for alternate universes, alternate realities, now would be a good time for a God, any God to oblige.
For This cannot be real.
How do I confront this reality. One where you once were, and time will pass, and empty pain will flow silver hot into the gaps you’ve left behind.
This cannot be real.
I inch outside the far edges of “this mortal frame”, licking the air in a desperate attempt to sense you here, somewhere, with us, with all of us. And all I feel is your absence loom like a gaping truth around me. So fucked up, this.
Sometimes the realest things are the hardest to believe. Like the fact that you were here, that you saw me, that you wobbled clumsy white clouds into my blaring sunlight, and gave me just the kind of weather I love. Knowing you existed, soul-friend, heart string, writer, dreamer, wanderer and all; made life so much sweeter.
2000 kilometers made nothing.
Now your letters remain the only extension of you I can keep. And that humongous hole you left behind, the only thing that proves you were real.
For you were real. And how utterly humbled I am to have known you, loved you and been showered in your bitter-sweet dilemmas with life, and how we, us common folk, (so unlike you), live it.
You, fool you, you big old Velveteen Rabbit, waiting to be real.
I guess the sweetest tragedy in all of this, is that you had no idea how real you were; to me, to her, to us. To all of us! Your clueless heart galloped on, so unforgiving to its imaginary flaws. I wish you saw how flawed we were too. How flawed we are. But you never did.
Your quest was left unfinished.
I want to holler at every staring face to “cry with me!” “Don’t you see what’s happened! My friend. . . he’s gone. . .and he’s taken something warm and fuzzy, and innocent with him.”
“Cry with me! He’s gone. . . and something wonderful has gone with him.”