No matter the advice, the kind words, the condolences, and thoughts, this does not, and will not, get better. Fine, you learn to live with it, move on, but the hurt and pain goes nowhere. Sometimes, just when you think it's peaceful, or you might be far enough away from the sadness to take a breath, there's a trigger that evokes all those tears again.
Although death comes swiftly to some and there tends to be comfort in that, there is no comfort in death when you live with a full awareness of life. A celebration of life is important, and the best thing we can hang onto, however, it's not easy.
Yes, I am sad, and finally angry. I am angry at people and my own emotions. You don't get to forgive and forget just because someone dies. It's horrible to see so many people attempt at accomplishing their own remorse over a dead man's body. Reflection is the only way to accomplish forgiveness from yourself, not other people.
I struggle every single day. People move on so quickly, and they have every right to. What do you do to honor someone that wasn't just a Father or a Best Friend? There are days, weeks, and months to come, where my coping mechanism will alter, during those changes I must find an outlet. Tattoos and memories only take you so far and are not an appropriate crutch. I hope that I can use the strength that might come from this to comfort my friends in the future. This is one of the few comforts I might take away.
Every time I hear a siren is stirs my blood. Every time I hear a motorcycle I find pricks from pins and needles. When I see someone on a cell phone, for any reason, while driving, I want to follow them and destroy their device. Your life is not as important as anyone else and cell phones lend us that illusion. Everyone else can wait if it will save a life.
I will leave you with this poem by Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967).
The Death-Bed
| HE drowsed and was aware of silence heaped | ||
| Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; | ||
| Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, | ||
| Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep. | ||
| Silence and safety; and his mortal shore | 5 | |
| Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. | ||
| Someone was holding water to his mouth. | ||
| He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped | ||
| Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot | ||
| The opiate throb and ache that was his wound. | 10 | |
| Water—calm, sliding green above the weir. | ||
| Water—a sky-lit alley for his boat, | ||
| Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers | ||
| And shaken hues of summer; drifting down, | ||
| He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept. | 15 | |
| Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, | ||
| Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. | ||
| Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars | ||
| Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; | ||
| Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, | 20 | |
| Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes. | ||
| Rain—he could hear it rustling through the dark; | ||
| Fragrance and passionless music woven as one; | ||
| Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers | ||
| That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps | 25 | |
| Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace, | ||
| Gently and slowly washing life away.
| ||
| He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain | ||
| Leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore | ||
| His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. | 30 | |
| But someone was beside him; soon he lay | ||
| Shuddering because that evil thing had passed. | ||
| And death, who’d stepped toward him, paused and stared. | ||
| Light many lamps and gather round his bed. | ||
| Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. | 35 | |
| Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. | ||
| He’s young; he hated War; how should he die | ||
| When cruel old campaigners win safe through? | ||
| But death replied: ‘I choose him.’ So he went, | ||
| And there was silence in the summer night; | 40 | |
| Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. | ||
| Then, far away, the thudding of the guns. |
