I am sorry if I have not written for a while. I didn’t feel the need to. Unlike before, time seems to be flowing much faster, and I guess I have just lost track.
I hope you don’t think I don’t remember you. I do. I remembered when we first met. It was a strange feeling, like there was a black hole sucking in all the matter in the room. I was surprised I did not disappear right then and there.
No, you were not some weak, benevolent friend. You made it very clear how powerful you are, how all-consuming you can be. You gave me that power, too: sometimes I got so angry that I felt like pure matter, ready to explode. Most of the time though, I just felt like a lump; I lay in my bed and you were there to accompany me through it all.
I would like to thank you for those times in particular. It was comforting with you, and somehow, even if there was lack of joy, I did not detest my aloneness. You quietly lay there with me, watching my tears flow freely, reciting rehearsed prayers to deaf ears. You were the one who woke me up at 2AM in the morning to tell me he was gone. You were the one who gave me the fragile strength of nothingness to pull me through the funeral.
Yes, there were people. But in the silence of my solitude, at my most intimate, you were my sole, dearest friend. With you, I felt the most human, like I had no defenses. Like I was fragile glass wrapped in gold leaf trying to survive freefall. But then again, it was you who pushed me off the cliff in the first place.
You wanted to take me with you; I assume it was because you are tired of being alone. You are the personification of loneliness, after all, so I assume you aren’t that popular. And yet, everyone knows you. Every name and every breath who has walked this earth has taken you as a friend one way or another. Sometimes, you walk through their lives once, like a comet burning in the atmosphere. Sometimes, you come back and forth like typhoons in a season. But one thing is for sure: no one likes you enough to stay. Not really.
Perhaps this is your destiny. To be a transient creature living a provisional life, never really being anywhere and nowhere at the same time. This time, I asked you to go. I decided that I have outgrown you, and I don’t need you anymore. I will feel my humanity in other ways perhaps. And I know you will meet other friends and you will mark their lives too, like their first kiss or first sex or first broken bone; you might be gone, but you will never be forgotten. Perhaps one day we will meet again, and maybe then your stay might be shorter, for I already know you. For now, we must part ways.
Goodbye, Grief. Thank you for being with me. I hope we will not meet again.
Jay-ar G. Paloma
Jay-ar G. Paloma is an HR executive by day and a frustrated artist by night. Jay-ar likes to read and write fiction and opinion pieces relating to LGBTQ, social media, and culture. When not engrossed in a book, he is probably playing a tune on his guitar or keyboard. Leave your love notes to Jay-ar here: firstname.lastname@example.org.