I got word today that a guy I used to work with killed himself yesterday. Lasse was apparently distressed by his lack of success in life. He was artistic, engaging, thoughtful, smart, hard-working, and liked by everyone I know who knew him. But that’s not enough. The word enough has passed from our lexicon.
This hit me in a place that I didn’t know I had inside me, and it has sparked something that I don’t have a name for. That he died – well, I’ve known people who died. But I haven’t known anyone who died by their own hand. And I have no place to put it, no tools for dealing with it, no nothing but this goddamned helpless flailing of the hands and this fight to hold in the scream that I’m only barely winning. I never knew what “wrong” was until now.
I will have my say. I will find the shape of this thing and give it a place to scream. Not tonight, but eventually.
But before I go to bed, this: Lasse – in the five stories between window and street I pray you felt a moment of peace, and wherever you are right now, I hope there is a place for people gifted with your kind of success. There is too much of what you lacked and too little of what you were…
…it’s a lonesome thing to be passing small towns with the
lights shining sideways when the night is down, or going in
strange places with a dog nosing before you and a dog nosing
behind, or drawn to the cities where you’d hear a voice
kissing and talking deep love in every shadow of the ditch,
and you passing on with an empty, hungry stomach failing
from your heart.
– John Millington Synge