RIP: Rasta in Peace

He died young. You would say that if a man in his late thirties die in one freezing January morning, right?

“Sorry but due to heavy snow, we can’t arrange his funeral for the next couple of days” said the guy with no face. The idea of him sleeping, no not sleeping, lying with no breath in a cold room does not make things easier.

“Can you send me his photos? I want to have his tattoo designed” asked my brother. That is his way through grief. My brother has never been crafty with his emotions anyway.

Thank God for Instagram and Spotify. As I go through hundreds of my old Instagram photos and listening to a heartbreaking playlist on Spotify, I am ready for my closeup.

This is my way through grief. My emotions are useless when I’m alone. They always demand an audience. Tears falling from my eyes while walking very slowly up the canal in Dublin. That is the right scene for my grief to come out.

Then I remember the times we walked together. When he was healthy. We saw each other two maybe three times a year but the everytime we met, it was the same excitement. Hugs and saliva.

Where am I now? I love him. But I won’t even go to his funeral. I was back home during new years eve. And he was in the hospital. I had excuses for not visiting him. Now I talk about love.

Simply because people has a simple notion of love. Similar examples to explain love. Usually using words like selflessness.

That’s not how I love.

Goodbye my eternal crush. You have changed me forever and that’s how our love will survive.

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