spots (part one)

when I was 16 my best friend commited suiside.

she stood between the leaves, and the overgrown grass, she moved around it, as if a part of the ongoing motion of the wind between the flowers, if my heart hadent been beyond repair, it would have felt something.

I step, tread, lightly, and I glimpse from a distance, and I feel as if all that holds me together evaporates.

I cling and I cling, as she sits, lightly upon the cold bench, she gently tucks a lump of shiny brown hair behind her ear, and flips the pages of her book, I wish I knew her book, I wish I knew her name.

Instead, I sit , always sit, miles away, and painfully, hyperventilating-ly  stare, at an object I am too terrified to approach, nothing within me feels rest, not even the hairs at my lower bake.

It is noon, and I am awake, what joy it is to be awake, I get to be a being that breaths, the air she breaths.

It has been 60 days and 5 hours, and I am slowly becoming nothing but an eye, fixed on her, at this time, she is usually coming back, from her university, and heading to her apartment, at this time, she makes tea, and I fear I know so much, and yet not.

I do not know her name.

But what are names, mere letters given to us, they do not define us.

I go back to my melloncholy, my solitude, my paint and glue and madness, and where I am who I am.

 she has bewitched me, her hair is all I ever paint.

when I was 16 I thought abseloutly nothing of the world, I didnot have compelling  urges to fight every spic of air in my way, life was a mere straight line path, until Eddie commited suicide, and I was forces to wake up, 

grow up. 

I saw and felt things my previous self didnot know existed, it almost never occured to me that aperson might actually choose their own death, besto it upon them self even.

it was alot to prosses.

eddi was the kind of guy who awaked to live, who had wisdom, byoned his years, he constantly refered to all the reasons ther are to find life beautiful, and he`d always say, "the simplist of pleasuers sre of so little finantial worth" in the morniong he would listen to great mello music with a delishous milky cup of coffe, on the bus staring at the wounder that is the sky, he would spen hours painting and repainting, it was our'thing' we would smoke a joint and throw paint all over the place and would call it art. so for a moment there I refused to belive he took his own life, I thought maybe, somone framed it, I went into the deepest stages of denial, mass blaming, all of it, I was in the deepist pits of shit. woundering why my best friend, my good honest, loyal friend, who always laughed with me, gave me a pat on the bak when I was in dire need of it, and smoked pot with me , all the suddne, and without anywarning, wouild tie a rope over there own nek, and step off a chair.
I tried to get the pises togither when the polise dissmissed it as a simple case of teen suicide.
a simple case.
what horror.
I asked all the people who has seen him prior to his death, his mother, barely getting her words togither  said "I..I was making pot rost in the itchen he came in said he wasnt hungry and that he had to study, it was normal  for him to study at this time, so I wasnt considered" she drew in a breath "and then, all of a sudden he was gone, never to come back, and I can explain it, and it is ripping me apart, how could this happen, how have we not seen any signs,I...I dont think he did it, it must have been an accident IT MUST"and then everything she said onward was far to unintelligible.