Fender-bender

A friend of mine told me today that he had a close encounter (of the nth kind) with a truck.
Red light, their car stops, but the truck behind them didn’t. But somehow, it just bounced off instead of ploughing through. It makes me wonder. Who would have told me he was gone if his family was gone, too?

It frightened me. I suppose it’s one of the hazards of net-friends. You never know when they’ll drop dead, and you’ll be lucky if someone logs on with their account to tell you. You never expect them to die either. You expect them to show up there, day after day, sometimes gone for holidays, sometimes for exams, there to talk to you and peer at you and bug you and comfort you and amuse you.


Something I drew

I had one friend.. well, he’s still my friend. I have one friend, who went on holiday to Italy and never came back. Run over, apparently. Painful, so painful to lose someone you never met, never “really” knew, and had no business knowing in the first place. Someone logged on with his account, his brother I think, and told us. I grieved, but felt guilty - what right did I have to grieve when this family member who had known him for so many more years must have been in so much more pain? But I was annoyed, too. They said, “It wasn’t his fault.” What does it matter whose fault it is as long as it wasn’t intentional? He died, he’s gone, the end. Life goes on.

Two ‘newer’ friends have visited Italy since and both come back in one piece. But I fear for their lives every time they go. I’m boycutting the country, too, of my own accord for depriving me of a good friend, not for fear of being killed myself. It’s a sacrifice for someone like me with chronic Wanderlust.

Why should I fear whenever someone goes to Italy, if the majority of them come back alive? There’s a chance they’d get killed at home, too, just crossing the street to go to the cornershop or driving to Uni. I have no fear there, though. I’ve lost no net-friends while they’re home. Or perhaps I have. I think, all in all, I’ve known several hundred people over the net, and at any given time, barely had more than 100 on my list ever. I’ve cut it down these days, now that I’m an old fart. That’s a lot of people I’ve spoken with and been friends with but lost touch with. I’m sure the majority of them are out there, fine, getting along with their lives more or less successfully. Then there’s the rest. Who of you died without my knowing? (Who gave you the right?) Where are you?
Liam, blackmoon., Chubchuck, Julian, Missy, Shadowdancer,… I know what happened to Michael, what about the rest of you? Pie’oh’pah, I never liked you much, but now I know where your name came from. Maybe you’d find me less annoying now, too.

I can’t find you.

Some hours after my friend told me of his close call, I somehow managed to access my memory files on when I first met him. Ah yes, unlike Michael, I’ve actually gotten the chance to meet him and get to know him in person, too. I remembered what felt like everything. Seeing him for the first time, talking, letting him carry my stuff, sitting on that rock, waiting to go eat someplace, eating, sitting at the table, watching my backpack, tasting rice, a massage, saying goodbye, the way he moves, speaks, watches, thinks, the temperature of every room, location, texure of surfaces…

My dead friend’s a hazy memory. Do I keep it alive to remind myself I’ve lost someone, too? No. I think walking into the hospital room and finding grandpa dead serves that purpose better. (Was he still warm? I always wonder, never ask.) I simply miss him. ‘Mi casa su casa’ will bring tears to my eyes at the wrong moments. Never heard his voice saying it.

What were you? 34? How old would you be now? I can’t remember how many years ago it was. Would we still talk? Or would you have faded away along the line somewhere along with the rest of them, for me to wonder if you’re alive, if you still remember me, or even care?