I'm at a loss
In a pocket of time, you were 10, and I was 15.
In a pocket of time, our parents were in love.
You were the coolest 10-year old I ever met. You would draw your pictures, and adults would secretly glance at each other as if to say, "Jesus, this kid has got something."
I knew from your father's past that your future could have gone one of two ways, and I saw you struggle from afar through the years.
You gained a family of your own, and I watched through instabooks and facegrams, hoping you would find your art.
I suppose you were watching me too. We watched each other grow up. And we both watched your father and my mother relapse again and again. I think this is what bonded us for life.
You finally chose the life that I knew was your strength. You had fire, and you were using it for good. I watched as you gained notoriety for your art. My mother always said you were something special. You are.
You did it, man. You followed your dream.
So why the fuck were you found dead inside your apartment?
I thought you learned from our parent's mistakes. You were at my mother's funeral.
What happened?
I hate that I found out. I wish I could keep the idea of your glowing success as my final thoughts for you. Being a spectator to your life means being sideswiped by devastation when I was so hopeful of your outcome.
This feeling is a disgustingly familiar one. It is a mix of anger and incomprehension, loss of hope and utter sadness, disappointment mixed with joy that I shared a connection with you that was mine, alone.
I thought we made it out together. I thought we beat the odds. I hate the thought that I was wrong.
I will miss you, my brother, my friend.