I Sit and Think


Has it really been two years? It seems like yesterday and a dozen years all at once. The sting has not lessened, it remains like a splinter plunged deep under flesh, a constant reminder of how fleeting and fragile life is.

In our youth, Brent and I were inseparable. We shook the pillars of heaven and defied the gods with our every breath. We took impossible chances, had amazing adventures, and left a trail of tears and laughter in our wake.

We were part of a band of brothers and sisters who were at times outlaws and free thinkers, scrappers and literati, hooligans and heroes.

We were most at home beside a fire, in a secluded wood with water nearby, a ready supply of cigarettes, cheap alcohol, and mind-altering contraband on hand.

We believed that there was more to the world than what we could see, that most people observed it like glimpsing through a peep hole in a door. We wanted to kick that door in, to unveil the mystery, to plunder the secrets of the universe, to experience the fullness of  this world and so many worlds beyond…

The secret we discovered was that there is no door.

I miss you, my friend, and I don’t miss you, because you’re gone and yet you’re still here.




I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.

—JRR Tolkien

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