they told him he has four months to live

here we go. it’s making me think of going away in a totally different light. and wondering what doctor-imposed timelines do to one’s conception of self. wondering what went through his mind, then, we he heard that number. wondering what he’s thinking of now, and pondering over how silly it is that I can still think of social constraints (and awkwardness) at a time like this. i think of going away now as the eclipse of ideas, and the loss to the world of one beautiful mind (and other things, like vocabularies and intonations and mannerisms). and the transfer of energy from here to somewher else. and this pathetic way in which i love words, and i love to put them on paper and on this screen, and to see them materialize in some form or another. and yet when it comes to things like this, these combinations of characters fail me so miserably. or i fail them? i’m not sure how this funny distance that’s always been there is going to play out in the next while. for him, who doesn’t know that these thoughts are here, and that they come up in the most random moments. for him, whose fragments will always be contained in that particular junction of space and time. for him, whose everything leaves me questioning whether i will ever see that in anyone else.

“and when I go, I know that the streetlights won’t skip a beat.”