I'm not one for showing my real feelings much. I feel like I'm needlessly annoying people when I do, even when they assure me they don't mind listening. Why do I think that? I don't know; I'm not really sure I trust them.
Here's a prime example of sanity for you: I make the previous statement in a live web journal for the whole world to see. Stupid, huh? The aspect of anonymity makes it easier though. It's a lot easier to do many things when people don't know it's you.
On December 16, 2004, during a dry, Santa Anna wind in souther California, Raymond Spayd went to sleep. He never woke up. The doctors don't know the cause yet, but it's driving me up the walls. In my heart, I know it's suicide, drugs, or a combination of the two. I don't blame myself- I'm not that stupid- but it still hurts. I accept the fact that he's gone and there's nothing I can do to bring him back.
I haven't slept much, nor have I eaten enough. I feel stupid for not giving in to the logic I've reasoned out, but I can't help feeling sad. It's so surreal, an I don't think I'll be able to accept it until I see the body.
He was going to teach me to play the guitar. I had always put it off, telling him that I didn't have the time at the moment, but we'd totally do it soon. Last night, I picked up the old guitar that used to belong to my uncle Tom (also deceased). I tuned it, played a few chords, tuned it again, and I started playing. I played the simple exercises meant to train your fingers to be stronger and more accurate. I short songs. I played chords. I played until my fingers had blisters on the tips and I couldn't play anymore.
I played because, while I played, it felt like he was still here with me.
...that's all I have to say about that.
Blanku · Sun Dec 19, 2004 @ 09:40am · 0 Comments |