Image: Downtown Portland, OR. 35mm HP5+, Pushed to 800
Note: This was a post on my old Tumblr blog.
I’m posting again, and it’s not Part 2, and it’s not about Dreams.
A person I knew died recently. It was pretty awful. It was both a suicide and an act of protest, and it was exceedingly traumatic and painful. And public.
We quit speaking a few years ago, and I was far enough removed that I didn’t find out until I read the news article. They interviewed a witness, who tried to save her in her final moments. It was in a park, you see. And he described it in too much detail. I really shouldn’t have read it. I can’t get his words, and the image of her, of what it would have felt like, of what kind of pain she must have felt and endured up until that moment, out of my head.
At least I can’t while it’s in there. Then a few hours later I’m fine. And happy. And normal. But then it comes sneaking back like this sickness in my stomach that I can’t stop. And I’m crying again.
We weren’t even close for long. But we were for a while.
She had dreams. And fears. And felt love. And felt so much goddamn sadness.
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Nothing - no words I can put down can accurately convey what I’m feeling. You can’t reduce someone to words. The amount of random chance in a person’s life, of the billions upon billions of possible choices that lead up to a person’s death, is so incredibly astounding. We can never be reduced to words.
- I’m sorry you couldn’t get the help you wanted and needed.
- I’m sorry resources for homeless people and mental health care are awful.
- I’m sorry we as a species failed you.
- I’m just so fucking sorry.
I hope you have peace.