I've often said to myself and others that I think my brother was the lucky one, having died so young. He doesn't have to go through the pain and trials of living, getting old and decrepit, losing more loved ones. That may sound morbid to some, but clearly if you think that, you have not been through what I have been through. I would gladly take his place. Matt is an irreplaceable link in a chain that is now broken and feels unrepairable.
Why is it always the people who live their lives how they want to and are essentially happy and content die? Is that called irony, or poetic justice, or cruelty? Should I ever reach a point of contentment, will I die?
In my mind I still find it impossible to fathom that he is gone. Physically I know I cannot talk to him face-to-face or on the phone. We won't go to the bar and chant "Wheeler!" ever again, he'll never give me snowboarding lessons again, or send me funny pictures of Murray accompanied by recordings of his voice. We'll never watch South Park, The Simpsons, Family Guy, or Futurama together ever again. We won't play Trivial Pursuit and get mad because Josh always got the easy questions. We'll never have another Chinese buffet eating contest, which was probably followed by some sort of a bowel sounds contest. No more C-walking contests. No more anything but hypothetical conversations with the air, dreams, and memories that I am completely and utterly terrified of forgetting (any more than I already haven't forgotten or written down, anyways).
My blogs seem sad, right? Well, they are, but I want everyone to know that I do have a light at the end of the tunnel, albeit dim. I don't believe I will be despaired forever. I'm just trying to come to terms with reality and decide what I need to do to make it better.