There are many days the sting of losing your voice I walk through that desert before the one who said you left your love today to cry for an open sky.
Chris, I am myself, musician, poet, singer though less known then you were.
This is my letter to you for forgiveness. I forgive you,I forgive your absence that resonates not only with your loss but with a recent family friend who passed away the same time that you took your life.
Chris, I don’t know the mental anguish you experienced; however, I do know the sting of depression, the regret of self harm, in the form of scars all over my body that map the pain of 10 years of silent screams. A discordant symphony of flesh, blood and fatty exposed tissue.
Chris, I connected with many of your of your contemporaries during my own “blackhole sun.”
First,Kurt Cobain’s heart shaped box then a manic street preaching messages of pain.
“Self-worth scatters self-esteem is a bore, long since moved to higher plateau, epilogue of youth, such beautiful dignity in self abuse.”
Lyrics from this time trickle through my mind.
Chris, your suicide was hard and was surprising after being around for so long.
“Dimond rope, silver chain, pretty noose is pretty pain.”
Do you still feel the same?
So what are those of us left to do?
The telephone of my heart has been ringing off the hook-line and sucker punched me in the gut.
You never answer, except the voicemail of “can’t come to the phone right now leave a message after the beep.”
I loved you, I thought I did.
I think in music, in tones of voice, and actions done.
Chris what drove you away? How could such a shining soul be driven to take his life?