(no subject)
When Kimyetta died, I didn't know about it, and I kept calling her phone when I got out of school that day (it was a Friday) and I got so pissed that she wasn't answering because she was supposed to come over for the weekend and sleep at my apartment with me so we could hang out and all that shit. I just remember being so pissed off and finally slamming the phone down and thinking well fuck you too.
That night I found out that she wasn't answering the phone because she was laying on a bed in the city freezer.
Three years later I'm texting my friend Jason and he's not answering. It's about mid-August, and I'm lonely and depressed and pissed because the one time I brave calling Jason's phone he doesn't answer it. So I keep texting, get pissed at him and finally just delete his number from my phone, saying fine if you don't want to answer me I don't need your number wasting space in my memory.
Jason hasn't been on deviantART for a while, but for Jason it's almost habitual to disappear like that, so I figure he's on one of his photography binges again and ignoring me after his big San Diego trip and all that shit.
September 2nd- yesterday- after a series of fucked up communication mishaps, a very nasty joke and fifteen minutes of silence, information makes its way into my brain, settles and seeps cold and burning down into the tired twisting muscles of my stomach:
Jason wasn't answering my texts or phone calls because, like Kimyetta, by the time I texted him he was dead.
Once again, I didn't know.
I am sitting awake in my bed two hours before Biology class, in my pajamas, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the news article I finally found ( "It was pretty big news, you should have heard about it" according to a friend of his which led me to Google the city where the car crashed, click the city's news database link and hunt down the article) because this just...
I know what I'm doing. I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm hunting for anything I can find to tell me Jason is not dead, to tell me I'm right to not believe the hundreds of comments on Jason's Facebook and deviantART pages saying RIP and I'll miss you Jason and all those little sentiments. The more I type this journal entry my fingers shake and my stomach feels the same tired, frigid burn that comes of heartbreak which makes me wonder if I truly understand at all how to grieve for anything.
Last night Christ, who loved Jason too, sat with me until four in the morning reading me Dr. Seuss and generally making me laugh. Jason's name was folded quiet and paper thin on the backs of our tongues and every silence seemed to push at my shoulders, to nudge me-- go on, say it, you know he's thinking about him too, just say it-- but I curled up in my blanket and closed my eyes and let the sounds of a not-at-all-like-television Australian accent lull me to sleep.
When I woke up it had moved closer to me-- the possibility of its being reality. The plug is searching for an acceptance-outlet, but for now I hope the walls keep moving farther away because I cannot, I cannot, I will not put Jason and dead in the same sentence with is yanking them close like a trio of best friends. I won't do it. I won't. They can be lonely for all I give a shit.
That night I found out that she wasn't answering the phone because she was laying on a bed in the city freezer.
Three years later I'm texting my friend Jason and he's not answering. It's about mid-August, and I'm lonely and depressed and pissed because the one time I brave calling Jason's phone he doesn't answer it. So I keep texting, get pissed at him and finally just delete his number from my phone, saying fine if you don't want to answer me I don't need your number wasting space in my memory.
Jason hasn't been on deviantART for a while, but for Jason it's almost habitual to disappear like that, so I figure he's on one of his photography binges again and ignoring me after his big San Diego trip and all that shit.
September 2nd- yesterday- after a series of fucked up communication mishaps, a very nasty joke and fifteen minutes of silence, information makes its way into my brain, settles and seeps cold and burning down into the tired twisting muscles of my stomach:
Jason wasn't answering my texts or phone calls because, like Kimyetta, by the time I texted him he was dead.
Once again, I didn't know.
I am sitting awake in my bed two hours before Biology class, in my pajamas, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the news article I finally found ( "It was pretty big news, you should have heard about it" according to a friend of his which led me to Google the city where the car crashed, click the city's news database link and hunt down the article) because this just...
I know what I'm doing. I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm hunting for anything I can find to tell me Jason is not dead, to tell me I'm right to not believe the hundreds of comments on Jason's Facebook and deviantART pages saying RIP and I'll miss you Jason and all those little sentiments. The more I type this journal entry my fingers shake and my stomach feels the same tired, frigid burn that comes of heartbreak which makes me wonder if I truly understand at all how to grieve for anything.
Last night Christ, who loved Jason too, sat with me until four in the morning reading me Dr. Seuss and generally making me laugh. Jason's name was folded quiet and paper thin on the backs of our tongues and every silence seemed to push at my shoulders, to nudge me-- go on, say it, you know he's thinking about him too, just say it-- but I curled up in my blanket and closed my eyes and let the sounds of a not-at-all-like-television Australian accent lull me to sleep.
When I woke up it had moved closer to me-- the possibility of its being reality. The plug is searching for an acceptance-outlet, but for now I hope the walls keep moving farther away because I cannot, I cannot, I will not put Jason and dead in the same sentence with is yanking them close like a trio of best friends. I won't do it. I won't. They can be lonely for all I give a shit.