aquestionofcharacter:

if you relate to having an idea for a story for 4 to 8 years with almost zero progress towards actually writing it down, clap your hands

This post kicked down my door, came into my house and publicly shamed me in front of God, my mother, and my cat.

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.

Briefe in die Leere

An den Raben aus der Ferne,

der Schlag deiner Flügel war mein Herzschlag, weißt du? Nein, wie auch.

Aber es zerreißt mir das Herz, niemals mit dir so sprechen zu können, denn ich habe dich zu einem allumfassenden Wunschtraum stilisiert, dem ich selbst niemals je gerecht werden kann.

Es ist jetzt zu spät. Meine letzte Chance ist jetzt vertan. “Lebwohl”, würde ich sagen, aber gibt es einen Abschied, ohne dass es jemals ein Treffen gegeben hat?

Einseitigkeit ist das Problem, ich weiß, ich weiß. Schlage ruhig weiter mit den Flügeln, vielleicht kann ich mit dir fliegen.

Grüße, leere Worte

Wiebke

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.