Back, Like Something That Returns After A Hiatus

And it’s time to make this blog more personal.

There’s an actual human being typing these words. And I’m depressed. I said it, without injecting tasteless humor.

I don’t know when the last time I fell asleep like a normal person was. Every night is my eyes begging not to be so dry, while my mind fights me and keeps me awake while I keep thinking how I have to brace myself for everyone’s upcoming death.

I’m scared of losing people, of dying, of wasting my time, of not being there, of being too late, of being too distant or too clingy, I’m scared of losing every single person I love and I’m ruining my life over it and it’s time to get some help, actual professional help, because being quirky and having a dark sense of humor just won’t cut anymore, no matter how invigorating I was, like a breath of fresh air.

Who knows what this new chapter will be like. I’ve never been to a psychiatrist. I’m scared and also not scared, maybe finally I’ll be rid of whatever is holding me back. I don’t know why my brain works this way.

I guess I’ll be less faceless on here.

I will have my point of view on things you never asked to read, but there will be shit that’s going on in my actual life. Like how this depression thing will go.

Cheers to whatever’s coming up.

With ultra regret,





The thought’s been hovering in my head since forever but I still haven’t taken that final leap of getting closure.

My grandfather died in 2004… I think. I say I think because I’m mentally trained not to even ask about it. It physically hurts, even now. It was July and my sister, mother and I were at a local swimming pool on an island (we have a summer house there). It was all fun and games up until my mother got a call. There had been an accident and it was serious.

I remember getting on the first ferry out of there and it was all a daze. The very same night, we arrive back to the city and I know that I have to be there to see him because my grandfather would probably like it for me to be there. You see, we have always been best friends, almost in an us-against-the-world kind of way. I knew that me being there would change everything. My parents thought it was a bad idea. He had been hurt when a car ran through a red light and I shouldn’t see him that way. One could say he was… killed?

I guess that what I really wanted was to say goodbye. My mind goes back and forth on that, yes, it would be terrible to see him dying but then again, it might have made things easier in hindsight.

That same night my sister and I were told that he died. I don’t remember how I reacted because I pretty much spent the rest of the time wishing I had called him that morning just for a second, so the car would have passed, so I could have prevented this with such a simple solution.

I was already a strange kid but this fucked me up a lot. I didn’t cry at the funeral because I was so angry at everyone pretending to be upset, people my grandfather made fun and people that never seemed to care when he was alive. I felt like it was up to me to represent him so I couldn’t cry, I had to be strong.

Honestly, the rest couple of years were a blur of just lying in bed and wishing that my life would turn into a Hollywood movie. The movie where you wake up and it was all a dream. I wish that movie cliche happened in real life… but guess what? It doesn’t. I’ve never tried to conjure anything as hard as I wished my grandfather was alive.

The divide I always had with people now had visible boundaries. They could so easily get over things. Who the fuck cared about grandparents anyway? Weren’t they just old people who gave you candy? What kind of relationship could you have with them that matters so much?

Well, it mattered to me a lot. He was my best friend and this loss haunts me a lot. I don’t know when it will become a fond memory, how many decades are supposed to pass me by? Let’s try and put down those countless dreams where I randomly see him in a crowd and holy fuck, the mind can be so scary because I can see him in every single detail. And I’m always asking him how come he’s here, he’s dead, long gone, how can he be here and talking to me?

I don’t like to admit to bring him up but it’s not healthy to react to his memory in sadness and tears anymore. I want to remember how he hated having people over and would wear his pajamas and proclaim loudly to the guests that he was sleepy.

So… I want to get closure.

That’s by confronting family members instead of having fantasies about it.

That’s by going to the cemetery and visiting his grave for the first time since he was buried. I’m not religious or spiritual but knowing that there’s just a layer of dirt between us feels soothing.

I think I’d like to do that.


Death Is Drunk Outside My Window And Keeps Me Up At Nights

I tried curing my fear of death some years ago and ended up writing a story about the actual physical manifestation of the Grim Reaper coming to my birthday party. He was an excellent guest but his smalltalk was forced.

The thing about writing is that it sneaks up on you like a sly motherfucker.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know I was terribly scared of the concept of death, oh… I know that. The words coming out were much more precise though. I subconsiously cocooned myself around morbid memorabilia, curious gadgets and creepy accessories just so I could be better acquainted! I shit you not, all of that just streamed through my writing, I wasn’t even thinking about it. And you can casually throw a glance around my house and my most prized possessions and that much is clear.

Yet I’ve always been peculiar even as a child, before knowing about death and that it can actually happen to mortals, even to people you know. I was practically in love with mummies and the funerary practices in ancient Egypt. Up until that point, it was just childish curiosity.
Now, things get harder the older you get. I’m not afraid of my own death. It’s mostly a terrifying feeling of knowing that the people around me will die eventually and I’ll be there to selfishly bear the brute force of the hit. Because I’ve already done that once and honestly it took a lot out of me, since my coping mechanism is shutting down and pretending that everything is okay. Feeling numb is scary.

Well, I’m not that numb anymore, despite the fact that my face begs to differ… but I’ve come a long way. Everything is better now and I’m honestly in a very good place after working on myself for a couple of years.

But really, it’s all waiting to happen all over again, isn’t it? Why is the natural process of life so damaging if it’s supposed to happen anyway? Shouldn’t we as humans have evovled into accepting things easier and faster? I wish there was a way to celebrate passing through *insert your preferred representation of moving on to a different realm after death*, having a laugh and remembering the good old times and that’s it.
But that’s not it. We are shaped and carved by these momentous events, such as they are and frankly, I didn’t sign up for this.

I see a lot of lost potential in cases like this, I feel robbed and haunted by what-could-have-beens. And it’s just not with the people close to me, it’s with everyone I admire. There could have been much more… and in a selfish way, there could have been more for me to have learned.

Death is a universal idea, a timeless currency that makes the world go round but how long does it take for our universe to resume into normalcy?