Schlagwort: death

thelightinthesky:

Today has not been a very good day so far. Today I learned that it is bad to wait and important to do things on time and that my actions (or lack therof) have consequences.

But I’ve got to remember that I’m not the only one that this happens to sometimes. Hardly anyone is as good and flawless as they present themselves. Plus, I have survived nightmareish days, none of any of this could be worse. So it’s alright.

It’s better now, but crap, how that day got worse.

Have you ever noticed how every person who is about to tell you about the death of a loved one gives off the same feeling of catastrophe, that you just know exactly what happened before they speak? My flatmate was the same. I’ll never get used to this, although it already feels deeply familiar, like something core human.

Sometimes I still think this cannot have been real. His death still seems surreal to me.

He would have turned 24 now. He died at 20, as the oldest one of us at that time. Now I am 21.

Now I am 21 and I am showing interests that he had and that I admired and I am not ever even thinking about becoming like him even though objectively it feels like I am sometimes, such as in this very moment, and that becoming of mine makes us, his aunt and his mother and me, all grow.

(Writing this feels like this is the most disrespectful opinion I have ever had about my family, and I hate myself for parts of this.)

It still does not feel real. He is just gone for a while, studying abroad, I tell myself sometimes, and sometimes it feels like that, but then other times it feels like he has simply never been there, here, with me. My memory of him feels like it’s fading. His voice is still there in my mind, but how we interacted… I do not remember much of it. I just remember looking up to him, aching for his approval, but I did not even know him.

His connection to everyone else is so real to me, but his connection to me has never felt like it existed at all.

Now an interest in films and TV shows and Fall Out Boy feel like his legacy to me, which they are really not, they are mine now, became mine individually, and I still cannot understand it all.

I said it in my mind.

Er ist tot. He is dead.

Sometimes I can cope with it (it has been over four months after all), sometimes it hits me hard and I don’t know what to do.

I want to help his sister, I want to help his mother, I want to help his brother, his father, and everyone else from his (our) family. But on the other hand, I never want to face them ever again because I feel guilty for being alive and it makes no sense. I should stay close to them, they (we, I) would need it, but I can’t.

Zuhause ist kein Ort, es steht mir frei zu gehen. Home is not a place, I’m free to go. It’s ringing in my head all day, I just need to believe in it. Go away, don’t look back. The home you loved is shattered.

Except it is not. I am not his sister, I am not his mother, I am not his grandmother, I am not his aunt, I am not even his friend. Just the oldest one left, the one who has always been and will always be compared to him silently.

It just hurts so much and I feel guilty for both hurting and living. Why him? He was only twenty. Why him, after everything that happened? Why him?? They do not deserve it, as silly as that sounds.

Is there a way to justify any of this? Is there a reason? No, and no. How could anything (like this) happen for a reason?

IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.

MERELY AN ACCIDENT

and a definition of “bad luck” it seems.

I still think about how much I owe to a child that has been dead for almost nineteen years.

If she hadn’t died, I would not live. My father would not be so shaken at signs of trouble. Everything would have been different. I would have had my own baby clothes. My playmates would not have been a year older than me. 

I would not exist if she (had) lived. There is no possible scenario in which I could have ever met my sister, and I think this is how the butterfly effect works and it scares me.

Katja. Wiebke. Hendrik. It’s the three of us, but her being alive would have meant it’s only her.

Lintu was a lightweight, all birdlike and restless. Constantly in motion, he thrived in the echo of nighttime storms. In bright daylight however, he would reach for the sun, burning his imaginative emerald feathers. He owned a voice, but disliked it, so sing and crawk was what he did instead. Wings as true as his imagination were his desire and it burnt him; one day, desiring would be his death, that sureness grew in his fluttering heart. Deep down under every hungry breath he took in lust for life and living, his faith would crumble and so his feathers soon turned dusty and perpetual motion became stumbling on the ground of reality. The blazing fire high up in the sky ridiculed him and devouring it was what he dreamed of in feverish fury. Lintu was a lightweight, but angry and haunted by a viscious demon on soundless wings. One day, Lintu had enough and he reached for the sun, relying on wings as false as his imagination, but it was alright and a first bitter laugh then became his redemption and would ultimately free him from his lust for the life he desired but could never reach.