In the Mourning.

 John has died. 

And I am back.  I hope no one was waiting for me, and I hope no one finds this. I am a little surprised to find this all is still here. 

Google never forgets. 

Connection is protection. And now John is gone. 

 I realized that i need to start writting again, bad, good, ugly. I just need to start putting my thoughts out again so I can try and organize myself. I should have never stopped writing, but I guess it is better late than never. 

 A robot, a mutant, Jesus, and the land of the living skies. 

And stories for ladies. Can't forget those. The only things I kept writing. 

So I am back. To ramble, and to try and find my voice. to try and working on my typing and to see if there is any spark left in me. I used to love to write, to look forward to it. Now i mostly play cards with strangers online. Will any one remember my win ratio on dominion?

 Will anyone be there to remember anything about me. 

I will remember John. 

May my return to writing be at least one good thing to come out of his passing. 

 Connection is protection. 

Where will my community go from here.  Where will I get stock advice from. Who will argue with Adam. I still don't believe it is real. I so badly do not want it to be real. Twice weekly. and now what. 

 This i guess. 

this is where i turn, inward, and out. back onto the page, to say something. anything. so long as i start talking again. and editing

 organizing my thoughts requires the page, editing the page, and finally calling it good enough.

but i won't edit this. 

john is gone. 

and i turn back to my roots. here on blogger. a simpler time. 

 I have been so untouched by death. it seems silly and selfish to a degree, and it is. I know there are many, many near me who have lost many more, much closer to themselves. I held John as close as I could, and I feel empty now. He defined a part of me, an important part. He was a mirror, and a lens. To focus what was reflected back. 

I need to go to bed. 

Even now I am distracted by the most beautiful woman. She texts me, and I respond. Her loss is so much greater than mine. It feels silly to be sad in front of her. She has lost, really lost, so much more than I have. But she comforts me still, and understands. And believes. 

Hiding behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry.

It would be nice to believe he is still here, still watching over us all. But I don't believe it. I want to tho. 

Where do we go, 

Here I am. 

What do I do with the rest of my time. What time I have. Where do I go.    

 

For now, to bed. 

ITM