Twenty weeks and a day.

Now I don't quite know what else to say to you. Talking to you is actually pretty different from talking with you. I wish you'd talk back. I know I could try and figure out what you'd answer to some stuff I say, because I've known you for over nineteen years to observe the ways you do the things you do and say the stuff you say, but it's still not the exact same. I guess I should say 'did', too.
Anyway, you know, maybe I'd think you would've answered 'I don't know' when really, you would've said 'I have no idea', but it still wouldn't have made that big of a difference. It's mostly the direct questions that make this all but easy and honest. Sometimes I have to think really hard, and I kind of decide that you would say 'no', but the only contrary of that would be 'yes'. Now, the difference between yes and no, that's a pretty big one, I must say. So I'm never sure. I don't like being unsure, and I certainly don't like being unsure about the only thing I have hope for.
This all is hopeless. But I refuse to believe in gibberish such as hopelessness. Is it denial that has got me crawling into myself and never coming out except when it's to babble to someone who's gone to the other side already? If it is, then I am probably better off in denial than I am in facing reality. It's just that reality is everything I'm supposed to do and I know what I am supposed to do, and I know I don't like it.
I'm getting off track here. I was trying to make clear I believe there is always hope, even if you can't seem to come across any. But on the other hand, maybe believing that, is just one thing to prove I'm in serious denial. What's that anyway? Denial. I have no hard time admitting you're dead and gone. I know it's not really you I'm talking to, I'm only whispering my words into the cold air. But I've got hope, I'm hoping everyday that every word, every tremor of my voice will somehow stir together with the air and be blown away high up or to where ever you are now. Whether it's east or west, south or north. I happened to call that hope. Just tell me if it's insane.

Mum and I. Well, as far as that goes... I wouldn't exactly say that we've grown to each other a lot more when it comes to sharing our feelings. We used to just randomly talk about stuff, laughing as old memories and painful yet hilarious rows we had made and had unsuccessfully tried to put away for good, passed by in faltering pieces. We don't have those any more, those talks that always made me feel light in the heart, and light in yours. We hide it behind grief, but really, it's just fear of ending up at the wrong subject at the wrong time and then we'd know there wouldn't be a way back out. You've ended up being the subject we used to avoid - like we used to avoid talking about dad because it'd make mum get upset with us – though you used to be an actual participant in the whole of the conversation. Yeah, you were our subject once every now and then, but it usually involved you talking about yourself, more than us talking about you.

There aren't enough conversation materials in our lifetime to leave out everything that had even the tiniest thing to do with you. We keep our mouths shut, simply because bringing up you as a little kid, will end up in crying over each other's shoulders as we'd think about how incredibly short you got to live and yet about how old you are now, or were. It just isn't fair to do that to ourselves just yet.

So as time passes by oh so slowly, I feel the lack inside out, outside in, and I know there'll be a time when we can talk. There'll be a few slight seconds each day in which I recall a certain moment you and I had, and I'd go and tell mum, and she'd laugh and so would I. Maybe we'd only grin, or smirk, or even glimpse, but we wouldn't cry. Most definitely, we wouldn't feel sad anymore. Because in time, we will learn to divide our lack versus mental memoires into two separate rooms of the heart, which we can visit whenever we feel like it. Ofcourse, the doors will squeakily open by themselves occasionally, but we will be able to bare that after all this.

I wish it were then. Wish to be over this.

It's been a long time since I talked with you as well. With mum... not so bad. She'll be here in a week or two, excluding the facts of getting into a horrible car-accident or having a heart-attack, so I'll take my changes on avoiding her just a little longer.
It's another story with you, though. Quite worse, yeah. I'm not saying talking to you ain't helping, but it sure isn't enough for me to last while I'm in the grieving-kind-of-part. You know you were difficult enough when you were answering, with the smooth replies and subtle hints in them, but now that I'm not receiving anything from where you are at all, I feel a little insanity rise up in the back of my head. It's time for some answers, rather than having every question left unanswered.

Ugh, Bill. Don't make me. Why do you always have to make me? Fine! Alright! I'll go and try to fix up a talk with mum. Don't get your hopes up, though, man. She's a toughy when it comes to expressing feelings, everything really. Worse; we inherited that trait of hers, and you know I'm even worse than you were.

So it'll be your fucking fault if this turns out to be more than a bad idea! Oh god.

I wish you'd be here with me to tell mum I miss you.


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