"Why do people have to die? To make life meaningful."
I sit idly. I remember. I look at pictures, over, and over and over again. I reread mindless journal posts and throwaway conversations. I never talk about it to anyone if I can help it, especially those closest to the pain. At first yes, but not after that. I think. I remember. I think about remembering and how there are some things that can sit in the back of your brain forever but you will never forget them and how these memories have to be those things because if that space is for anything it's for them. I try to come to some grand conclusion about life and find myself mired in trite and overindulgent perpectives on death. I decide to not let those things influence my opinion about life or death, and I realize that some day ten years from now I'm still going to cry when I think about her death, and the people who she left behind, the people who didn't get to say goodbye, or return the phone call because they were too busy with who remembers what. And I realize that I am one of those people, and that I could have and should have been a better friend, and I try to forgive myself for my slights and shortcomings as a human being and I realize that one of my shortcomings is my ability to justify my own actions but never forgive them. And I won't forgive myself. And I won't forget. And this is how I mourn.