You nicknamed me lazer
In the past, when something mind blowing happened I immediately turned to the pen. It was my therapeutic way of sorting things out. So when I heard the news that you died I tried to do the same. But somewhere along the line I forgot how to form sentences. And the sentences that I could form were nothing more than lame cliches So a month passed. Enough time for everything to settle in to place. Maybe then I would be able to do this justice. Instead I got a lesson that at times I can do no better than a cliche.
You deserve better than this.
After 25 years I have seen some extraordinary people pass on, and while I was sad, I was never deeply affected by their death. It was the next logical step in their journey. They lived their life and had their opportunity to to do everything they were capable of. I saw their funeral as a celebration of their life and never thought twice about the idea of seeing them again after I passed. It was simple for me, but this hasn't been.
Initially I played the events that were told to me in my mental theater. And as I watched, I wanted to strangle the bitch driving the car. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to stop time and pull you out of the car and keep you safe. I cried. But there were some things that made no sense. You wear your seatbelt. You would have come up with some funny thing to say to let the driver know that they were driving like a moron. Alternate possibilities started to form. Maybe it was a different Ben Moses. Maybe someone had stolen your wallet and had it in their pocket when they crashed. Maybe you were in the crash but had survived and paperwork got mixed up. And on and on.
I dove deeper into these alternate versions of the story and put a lot of stock in them, as if I alone had the power to bring you back. Maybe if I believed in them hard enough you would give me a call and let me know how things were going in Colorado. And the rest of the world would have never known otherwise. No call. I just had to believe harder. But eventually, I realized that this path would lead to insanity. So I had to choose between that and coping.
I went to your funeral and hoped it would be an open casket. My choice would be that much easier. I could never be tempted to indulge in my stories again. Insanity would never be a possibility. But it was closed. Initially I was pissed that some stranger had fucked with your body so much that the public wouldn't be able to stand the sight. But then I realized it was better this way. Now my last vision of you was a big hug before you left and each of us saying, "I love you."
You called me after you found out you got that job in Colorado. First thing you said was, "Are you ready to get pissed at me?" Truthfully I was mad. I can be a selfish person and was already harping about you not being around enough. But at the same time I was happy for you. You were always adventurous and this was an opportunity to delve a little deeper in one of your passions. I had a lot to say, but figured I would give you some time out west before speaking my piece. Now I fear I'll never get the chance. The old me had it all figured out...but this has made me reevaluate those types of thoughts.
I know, people typically reassess their faith at a time like this. "How could a loving God allow this?" But that's not my reason. It just feels like I'm lying to myself each time I think I'll see you again. Like those thoughts are nothing more than a defense mechanism. I remember a couple of occasions you said, "Have I ever told you my thoughts on ghosts, the after life and how it all ties in to string theory with a little twist?" No. And as soon as you would start your discussion someone would come in or a phone call would interrupt. "Let's just save this for another time." Fuck. I really wish you would have finished your thoughts one of those times. Maybe it would give me something else to ponder because my faith feels cheap at the moment.
And quickly this emptiness grew. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to do anything. I found myself wanting to go to sleep more or drink more. But I realized that you would have been seriously disappointed if I continued down this path. Sure, I also realized that if I was completely chipper you would have been disappointed in me for not being sad enough =). But I think we're on the same page now.
You taught me a lot. Every time I felt like a coward you pushed me toward courage. Every time I was sad you pushed me toward laughter. Every time I was feeling stingy you pushed me to be frivolous. If I got caught up in life...you reminded me to live. You helped me appreciate food and your love of bourbon rubbed off on me. I used to hate Bob Dylan...with a passion. You threw one of his songs on a mix cd for me and it opened my eyes. Next thing I know you and I are watching a Dylan documentary and I'm left wondering how the hell I hated the man's music so much. You were just that kind of guy. Your thoughts became mine and vice versa. And maybe that's why I've had such a hard time with this. I feel like a part of me died that day. Fucking cliches.
But in the moping I heard your voice telling me to quit being so fucking emo. It was as if you were right there saying it to me. And it hit me. You took a piece of me with you in death, but at the same time I took a piece of you. Instead of indulging in fantasies to make you live on I could be an example to the world of what you were. I wouldn't need to mention your name, I would just have to be the things in you that I admired so much. Because that part of me would have never been there without you.
I love you man.