The idea forced its way to the surface: whether one person reads this, or 1 million, the soul I mourn must be remembered. Regardless of your beliefs two facts are universal: we are born and at some point in our journey we perish.
Sometimes, in the all too often hazy journey of life, we meet a soul and fate chooses to shine a light upon it. He appeared in my journey at a juncture where my writer’s tool appeared whithered and dying. He listened, though it was not in his nature to do so. As I spoke my eyes would flutter from his graying hair to his thick glasses but most of all to fatherly eyes that absorbed the aches of life- both mine and his own. As conversations wore on his message was one: write. Write, he said, because we are each given a weapon with which to tackle the forest that is life. Write, because first and foremost, it is your duty towards you; its your duty towards your soul. Somehow, he saw what lay within my intellectual fog. With each conversation, with hands made fatigued by the travailles of life, he began to reach within the fog to draw me closer to the sun of thought transference to written emotion. There would be others who would do even more to bring me back to, life giving, writing but they were emotionally invested to begin with. From his humanity, caring for a mind that was foreign to him, sprang a renewed vigor for the written word.
He lost hs vigor this week. Today I remember him.
Goodbye my friend.