text: Clarity, my dearest, I felt I should be clear, as now you have passed and there is nothing for me to hide from. You kept me sane, sociable, and suited in my days of sorrow and solemn sedation. I have come to understand the nature of things. (Kind of.) Poetically, this could not be more appropriate, as I am on my way out as well. After your wake, I was walking through our old neighborhood, near the corner of Carnahan and Stout, to be precise. That single streetlight still stands there; you know the one that I’m talking about. I jumped ahead. Apologies. (I don't mean that.) You see, as I walked among the thousand flickering bulbs that line the grid of this massive city, I began to think of *those* days. You know precisely what I am talking about when I say that. "Back in *those* days," you would say before delving into some old (and likely skewed) memory of something that we had once done. In *those* days, it was a joy to share your soul with another, to mix them, entwine them, and allow them to interact. You would do so without any regard for the soul itself, and exactly who it was mingling with. However, as any great story goes, there comes a time when that innocence must be lost. Whether it is at the hands of a lover, a family-member, or a random passerby whose presence pulls from within you an overwhelming feeling of self-loathing and regret, the world will break you. After the healing is finished, (as finished as it can ever be) you are expected to pick right back up, as you were, and push forward into the great unknown. (Though, really, we've seen those films and read those books; we know that it is far less “great” than certain philosophers may imply.) You are essentially expected to take the remnants of a shattered glass and piece them back together. But you don’t have glue; you have only your blood. Also, the room is on fire. But you can't do this. (Don’t you dare point out the physical impossibility of my metaphor. I know you want to and I resent you for it.) These glass-shattering experiences shape us, mold us into the person that we will become. The concept is romantic, I suppose, but the impact is a rather depressing reality. The “strongest” people are simply those hardened enough, indifferent enough, disconnected enough to labor on. (“Fuck all” is the mantra; I need a drink.) I apologize for getting so dark with this; it wasn’t my initial intention, but what can I say? I’m grieving. Here’s some light for you. (Literally.) The streetlight that sits on the sidewalk near my home was a source of solidity for me in my darkest days (*those* days); we’ve discussed this before, I’m sure. That streetlight, in my mind, protected me from the realm of uncertainty. I had, in the moments that I spent under it, light, and therefore the darkness was unable to claim me. But as I stood on that corner, confident in my continued existence, the bulb dimmed, and died. You see, we place so much confidence in these early interactions, entering into them with bold enthusiasm; but, as the streetlight showed, we ultimately end up questioning that initial trust, regretting it. There comes a point in life where you stop looking at your connections with unhindered positivity. There comes a point when the question turns from "how greatly can this person enrich my life?" to "how easily could this person break me?" I know you would never intentionally do so, but I can’t help but hate you for it. (But, I miss you.) How dare you leave me with this broken glass? (And I love you.) Still, I am/was always, entirely yours, even though I regret it now. (I do/don’t mean that.) Look at that, my glass is empty; I polished off the bottle right as I finished this letter. (How disgustingly, poetically, *perfect*.) Now what? A trigger, a loud noise, and emptiness (or the infinite; what do I know?). Either way, clarity. (And my thoughts will finally calm.