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muckefuckYesterday was the thousandth day since Monshu died. I figured out the date some time ago and marked it on the calendar, unsure what I planned to do. As it turns out, it didn't much matter since I came down with a cold and spent the day doing not much of anything.
I did think about how things have and haven't changed in that time. Many things haven't: I still work the same job and live in the same apartment. I keep to the same routine, I have the same interests. I have mostly the same friends (with the conspicuous absence of Turtle and Turtle Wife), though I see the Oakhyde Park crowd less now overall than when they were making a concerted effort to check on him and me.
I go out more, I drink more, and as a result I know a lot more people. Almost all of them are gay men and--for once--a significant number are younger than me, often by two decades. With a couple of exceptions, they're shallow acquaintances. I play around a bit more and I'm less careful than I used to be. I look more conventionally attractive than I did with the long hair and nails; I care more about how I dress.
I'm not as kind as I used to be. I still make an effort to provide some outreach toward fellow widows but I feel like a lot of them are stuck in the early stages of anger and bargaining; I find their spiritualism tedious. I take my family and oldest friends for granted. I get angry for unimportant reasons. I'm much less anxious, but also less productive.
I haven't gone travelling like I thought I would. Turns out, it wasn't Monshu keeping me at home so much, it was me. I still want to see the world but it's not as enticing doing it on my own and I haven't found a good travelling companion despite auditioning a couple. I still have the capacity to fall in love but I'm not in any hurry for it to happen.
I don't spend too much time thinking about how things could have gone differently. I still have regrets but they are mostly tied to me possessing knowledge which I didn't have at the time so they aren't something I can really reproach myself about. It gets harder for me to picture the alternatives, since the reality is so firmly entrenched now.
I still remember so much about him, although it seems paltry given the immense amount of time we spent together. Over 100,000 hours in each other's presence and so few concrete memories. I don't know if I'm forgetting him more or less slowly than I expected to. Something can still happen unexpectedly to jolt a memory to the surface, but it can be hard to recall it even a day later.
I don't think he'd be surprised to see where I am today. I hope he wouldn't be disappointed, but I know if he were, he wouldn't tell me. Nobody has ever accepted me for who I am quite like he did and, if there's one thing I can do to honour his legacy, it would be to do that for myself.
I did think about how things have and haven't changed in that time. Many things haven't: I still work the same job and live in the same apartment. I keep to the same routine, I have the same interests. I have mostly the same friends (with the conspicuous absence of Turtle and Turtle Wife), though I see the Oakhyde Park crowd less now overall than when they were making a concerted effort to check on him and me.
I go out more, I drink more, and as a result I know a lot more people. Almost all of them are gay men and--for once--a significant number are younger than me, often by two decades. With a couple of exceptions, they're shallow acquaintances. I play around a bit more and I'm less careful than I used to be. I look more conventionally attractive than I did with the long hair and nails; I care more about how I dress.
I'm not as kind as I used to be. I still make an effort to provide some outreach toward fellow widows but I feel like a lot of them are stuck in the early stages of anger and bargaining; I find their spiritualism tedious. I take my family and oldest friends for granted. I get angry for unimportant reasons. I'm much less anxious, but also less productive.
I haven't gone travelling like I thought I would. Turns out, it wasn't Monshu keeping me at home so much, it was me. I still want to see the world but it's not as enticing doing it on my own and I haven't found a good travelling companion despite auditioning a couple. I still have the capacity to fall in love but I'm not in any hurry for it to happen.
I don't spend too much time thinking about how things could have gone differently. I still have regrets but they are mostly tied to me possessing knowledge which I didn't have at the time so they aren't something I can really reproach myself about. It gets harder for me to picture the alternatives, since the reality is so firmly entrenched now.
I still remember so much about him, although it seems paltry given the immense amount of time we spent together. Over 100,000 hours in each other's presence and so few concrete memories. I don't know if I'm forgetting him more or less slowly than I expected to. Something can still happen unexpectedly to jolt a memory to the surface, but it can be hard to recall it even a day later.
I don't think he'd be surprised to see where I am today. I hope he wouldn't be disappointed, but I know if he were, he wouldn't tell me. Nobody has ever accepted me for who I am quite like he did and, if there's one thing I can do to honour his legacy, it would be to do that for myself.
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