A little over a year ago I started writing again, after almost a decade of giving too much credit to "friends" who either didn't understand what a first draft was, or consistently accused me of plagiarism in those times I'd find my voice by acknowledging my pain.
On August 22, 2023, a close friend whom I initially bonded over shared trauma and our thoughts on writing 18 years ago, and then later photography in our 20's, passed away.
For anyone who's "put up" with me since then, I'll never be able to properly thank you, as it does get incredibly lonely within grief when most of people simply don't have the patience for those actively suffering with grief. It especially gets alienating when people assume you're flaking on them to "wallow in your misery," when really you're struggling to sleep more than 3-4 hours, and you learn to stay silent rather than explain how you still haven't "moved on" from the guilt you feel for not being there for someone who never turned their back on you. It's not a romanticizing of pain, but an acknowledgement of what a person meant to you, doubly so as a fellow artist who struggled with self-confidence and depression... someone who, just like you, had their own hopes and dreams they'd yet to attain - now gone, never to see those things through - while you're still here, dealing with those same hurdles, with people dancing around the crux of their arguments that death isn't something to take seriously, when it's something I spent most of my 20's familiarizing myself with.
On August 22, 2024, one year later - 10 minutes shy from when Cynthia's life ended - I read a piece I'd been working on for the better part of the past year, fulfilling a promise I made in High School, writing something for her. It's still not done, but given how much it makes me cry reading it, I know it's close. This is a 3 minute clip of it.
RIP Cynthia Garcia.