Day 225 — Grief
I write this while I’m encased in a huge metal cage that’s taking me back home. I can see the Sun setting to my left the white light of the moon on my right. Phony PPL have a great song about the moon. It was one that I regularly shared with my ex. We would send pictures of the moon to each other and eagerly tell one another to look out for the moon when it was extra bright or pink or red, or present.
I said that when you meet the right person, the love songs make sense. I write this with tears in my eyes that I won’t wipe away yet.
As I wrote this, we started to experience horrible turbulence. I don’t like flying. I’m actually scared of it. I went to Trinidad last year and it wasn’t too bad, I had already took in a few drinks beforehand and it was after Pace had passed away. After that happened, things didn’t seem so hard, things like getting on a plane. The whole experience made me more emphatic, I give more to homeless people now for instance and more time to people I know.
When you travel alone, there’s nobody’s hand to hold. Nobody to squeeze. Nobody to tell you that it will be alright.
I freaked out and had a panic attack shortly after the turbulence. I started crying. I felt alone on the plane. I travelled with a picture of my friend but couldn’t get it out of my bag as I held on to the table tray arms in front of me. I took the pin of him and pierced it through my jumper in the middle of my chest, just over my heart and held it there. I kiss this badge every morning. I rubbed it against my heart as I tried to calm down. While I’m writing this with my right hand, my left hand is shaking in-between the squeezes. I’m crying slowly, wiping years away, squeezing the badge and repeating the process. I thought of what my friend would do in this sitatuion. What his emerald eyes would tell me. He would put his arm around me, squeeze me tight and say that it was no problem, that I can ride it out.
I’m staring at his picture now. I love you brother, I always will. Always.
I’m crying and I don’t know what to do. I look out of the window and I want it to be okay. I want it not to hurt. I miss you. I wish I could make you come back but I know it doesn’t work like that. But it’s nice to wish sometimes. Nice to dream, right?