Last night, my dear brother passed away in his sleep.

Oh, how he so suffered for 22 years! Lament after lament, battling for every additional day past the first time he stuck a needle in his arm. He was a fire of a man; his voice rang hoarse through his throat when he sang, and he only sang of sadness. He sang of loss, and being alone, and traveling to see if there was anything out there that looked like him, or somebody out there that felt the burning and anxiety that he did. He was staunch and rebellious and – deep down – only wanted home. But home for him was returning to the dust he came from, before his time should have been up.

Oh little brother! How you were a cup in my cupboard, whose value was known and appreciated! What can I do now but say goodbye in the same way I would say goodbye were a cup in my cupboard to break? You will be missed as any loss is missed – your life was loved and needed by more than you know.

I will mourn you for a time, and then like all things, I will forget. Then I will pass as well, like everyone today who grieves your death. All things will eventually be like you, stiff and still, ready to give back to the earth.

Did you know this was going to happen? Did you fall asleep last night knowing that you wouldn’t wake? Did you suffer for a time or did your dreams just become more and more vivid as you lost your breath in our world? Wouldn’t you have said goodbye if you knew? Why didn’t you say goodbye?

You no longer feel anything. For a life of feeling too much, this must come as a relief to you. Your body went back and forth from the edge of Hades too many times for us to count. You leave behind a family that doesn’t believe that you are nowhere. You didn’t get to live to hear that you’re going to be an uncle again. You’ll never meet another soul.

Wishing you could come back would do no good, nor would that wish be fulfilled, so I will not do that. Instead I will try to use the rest of my life to be honorable and true, which is what I wanted for you.

Farewell, Ivan. 07/21/2018.