All my life, I've been on the outside. I was an outsider at school. I was an outsider in my family. I was an outsider with my friends.
As I got older, after I'd left my family, and after I left school, I found myself at a crossroads, both literally, in many cases, and figuratively - I realized the only way I could be happy was to remain out there, alone. I made the mistake of thinking I should die because I was afraid of the loneliness, and I was afraid of the heartache, and I was afraid that I didn't belong out there at all. I didn't know you could orbit the "normal" life and still remain. I didn't know that sometimes your life is a storm, with rain coming down in sheets over your face, giant swells of water snuffing your only lantern, everything darkness; you, a fool, wandering out there in the maelstrom without hope, scared shitless and all by yourself.
My friends Chris, Joe, and both Brazzles committed suicide. I still wish I could see them sometimes, to see their eyes light up, to hold their hands. And I won't lie, I wasn't much of a friend to begin with, sharing slivers of time with them, seeing them rarely, clinging on to echoes of their voices, like trying to remember chimes in the wind. As they departed, nothing filled their voids. Just more void.
They were outsiders, too. Fellow travelers hobbling down deer trails, over hill and under bough, far away and forgotten. Wandering.
There are others, too; people I know who may yet depart. People, I hope, never decide to leave until their times come. Their mountains may be taller than mine, their treks may be steeper yet. I don't know.
Today, just another given day, I'm still that same lonely person drifting on the outside. And no matter how hard a I pull up and try to pull in, I just drift farther and farther away. It's not scary. Scary is when someone is out of control, when they're willing to make lasting decisions based on mere moments of emotion. That's what my friends did, and they'll never be back to tell me about the trip. Instead, it's just lonely. The birds sometimes call out, or a doe rattles some branches, or a turtle glides back into the water. Other times there's a clanging of aluminum mess gear held close to the knees as a small fire cooks beans, and someone is drinking cheap vodka, quietly contemplating their mistakes out there in the woods. They don't see me and I don't see them, but we're both tentative of each other's sounds, and we do our best to avoid one another.
I plan to remain here, so that shouldn't be someone's worry. I've already looked out over the edge; looked out over and tried to relate what's down there in the blackness before coming back away with my feet on the ground. But sometimes it's lonely work, and it's cold out there, and it's often quiet. And even when you want to bring a friend along, you often cannot. You must go it alone. Such is the way of things.
If you see me out there some day, don't be afraid to wave. Just don't be hurt if I don't wave back. And if you call my name and I don't hear you, know that I am with you, out there, alone and wandering.