I can't handle this shit. I'm fucking drunk, again, and for some resaon his death is killing me more than it normally does.
I can do nothing more than sit here and cry, like a fucking pussy, about why he's dead. 22 fucking years old, a bodybuilder, and he's fucking dead. Alot of good all that did him.
For me, it seems like he never was here in the first place, like everything was a big dream... he never existed, except in the memories that I'm not sure if I even have...
I guess that is what the mind does, to protect itself. It makes it seem like the shit never happened, and that everything was just a dream , and he was never here in the first place. It was probably easier to do back in the day, when pictures weren't around. For me, I could erase the memory of him easily, like nothing.
But its these fucking pictures that murder me. Its proof that he was here, that he was a living, loving, caring person, before that faithful day when he became a dead bag of bones full of blood, when he became the man that I saw in the casket that day.
I still have dreams, now and again, that he's alive. I've had dreams where he jumped out of the casket, and shook death off, like a bug, and smiled at me, ready to do what we do. I've had dreams that I was talking to him, the day before he died, and I tried to tell him what tommorow would hold- only death. Nothing makes me feel any better.
I wonder sometimes if this is all worth it. If there is no God, then what the fuck am I concerned about? His mother went to a pyshic though, and there was that message, of course, that said, "Tell my mom that I'm OK". For someone less superstitious, that might not have been a bad deal. For me, though, it means the world. Not only does it mean that my buddy is OK, but it means that one doesn't have to be a crazy superchristian to believe that we go to heaven. It means that maybe God judges us on our merits, and what we do in life, instead of what we believe. It means that maybe God is my kind of God, not theirs.
Either way....God help us all.