Why Am I So Sad?

I don't know why I am so sad about the death of my friend in May. I hadn't contacted her in months, didn't know anything personal about her, and never even talked to her over the phone. Yet I am so sad. I feel as though my best friend has been taken away from me, yet she was nothing of the sort. She was simply a friend, a good friend. Sorrow is to be expected to be attached to such a relationship, but certainly not that which I am feeling. I feel as though a part of myself has died. As if a friend that once existed in my world, a piece of love that once filled my heart, has now been taken away.

I suppose this and more is what I have been trying to say with all my poems as of late. It's hard to explain, but I guess I can give the best example I know of. Do you have a friend who had a terrible accident on a certain road and lost someone close to them, and now they refuse to ever drive down that road again? That scenario has more or less happened to me, except it isn't just one road I can't go down, it's an entire world. Every corner I turn is another memory of us. These are memories I thought I had long since forgotten. It is quite queer how one can remember things when they are under emotional distress.

As I continue to go out in to this world, and continue to drive down that fateful road that so many people avoid, I am saddened each day. She is the first thing on my mind when I wake up, and always the last thing when I go to bed. I never loved her as anything more than a friend, but I can't help but ask myself when these memories and thoughts of her will dwindle - even if ever so slightly. Some temporary relief is all I ask for. Some moments of my day where I am not thinking about how she is gone. I do not have such a power over my mind to force myself not to think about those types of things. It does what it wants to, and I am its victim.
I will close this with something I wrote to Sharon in January of this year, on this blog. It is titled in code, which was originally a secret as to the recipient of this piece. Due to her passing, however, I will reveal the actual title of this prose. It is called: "Dear Fellow Watcher"

Mystery is probably the first word that comes to mind, but that is most likely only because you interest me. I rarely am unable to grasp an object I am compelled towards, and thus am baffled by your nature. An aura of mystique completely shrouds you, and hides any real clues as to what you truly want the most. There is wisdom in your years, as there are in mine. Believe it or not, in a way you are quite intimidating. Failure to produce anything that doesn't come truly from my heart in your presence afterwards leads me to guilt. I've no idea about those normal aspects of your life, but I do not need them to know who you are. It would be absolutely worthless for me to wish for your happiness, because you don't need me to. Such is the confidence I have in your ability to always fight the right battles, with your own moral strategies. You have been a good friend at times when there was no one else. You have seen me at my rock-bottom, yet did not save me, because you knew it would make me stronger. You instead encouraged me, and in the end, I am forever grateful.

Again, this is something I wrote in January to her (it is on this blog), and I asked her to read it, but do not know if she did. When I say she didn't save me - I lied. She did, by letting me find my own strength through encouragement and understanding.