I will not sleep tonight
too many thoughts, muscles too tight
here in the dark I'll replay
all that has passed, my youth, the glory of broken
cold winter sun, rises, decays
I'll just get up to stay drunk all day
too many doubts, thoughts that delay
it is now gone, it's gone, the glory of broken days
There's so much I could write in this post. So much. Perhaps, like other posts I haven't expanded on---just yet---some other time I shall.
Several people in my life close to me have passed on, and left an impact on me that will always be remembered. It wasn't just me, far from it---even at his funeral, my friend Marshall was honored with a sign near a highway that displayed WE MISS YOU from his co-workers. As I drifted off last night, although he wasn't in the forefront of my mind, I dreamt of him and his older brother---also a good friend of mine, were eating ethnic cuisine, drinking, and chuckling at stories from both past and present. When I woke up, the pang of of loss flooded back with an intensity only surpassed at his abrupt death, one that occurred in his early thirties as he laid down to rest from a lengthy work day.
It bothered me that a few wondered if he was "slow," and perhaps, if they had any clinical background, may have misdiagnosed him with Asperger's Syndrome. Marshall may have been plunged headfirst into video games for hours on end by himself nary little interruption, or become engrossed in a fantasy tale from a tome that sparked his interest, but he was sensitive to his environment and in his social interactions with others, and possessing alexithymia? It was certainly not in his personal makeup---he was a creature of habit, a comfortable semi-stoicism at times, and self-absorption, but no one who knew well enough could accuse him of out of touch with himself or the others close to him. He was quite the generous individual, even if not materialistic on his own front.
I dedicated a post on another forum to a semi-public figure I dubbed as "Byron," one I knew off and on for almost fourteen years. Strangely enough, Byron and Marshall would meet only on a few occasions, but those events were both intertwined with humorous good times and mystery. I remember Byron laughing heartily at Marshall's antics of playing an oddball superhero for a moment, and in another more sombre session after midnight, contemplating in a serious depth questions about life and if the divine even exists---almost to the point teetering on the edge of recreating those eerie spectral invitations into the astral that William James himself would have raised on eyebrow on. We had also, as a motley group, sauntered out into the backyard and the mist of a rather ethereal and chilly October night, gathered to get away from the den of iniquity filled with beer bottles, brandy, vodka, cigarette and incense smoke, to stop and meditate for a time about both the jovial and the profound.
The magical circle of friends would eventually end. It is depressing, and not surprising, either. And in as much as I maintained contact with Marshall for those years before he had left this earth, I can still recall the nights we stayed up until the nocturnal hours crept near the dawn, "talking shop" about work, our growing cynicism and foibles with young women, or otherworldly tales of ghosts and shades from a documentary or text we had watched or read, I do wonder if own his spirit has made a visit or two on us, if only to remind us of those times with him again. Perhaps it is a selfish gesture on my part or wistful thinking, but to relive that period would be welcome. However, there is no going back, only the good that knowing his life enriched ours.