The Book of Chaos: For You

Ah, Mr. Mathias.
I knew you well
and so did our old friend Mr. Chaos,
I believe.

You taught me well and
you taught me that I knew more
than I thought.

I never realized how powerful it could be
to talk to someone,
wholesomely or openly,
or moreover
I never knew how healing
the human touch could be,
or how lifesaving a brotherly hug is
until you showed me.

I don’t know much
But I do know this.
I know that a person can save a life,
just by being themselves.
I can say that a person can be lifesaving,
just by being honest,
and rather than look for the right words
or try to find the right things to say,
I can say that a person has the ability
to save a life,
just by being themselves—or just by being “them”
or by showing up. I can say that people
can be the most lifesaving factor
in an unknown way,
just by saying the word, “Hello.”

And ah, Mathias . . .
You knew this all too well.
You knew that there was no reason to talk a big game
or to emulate a certain personality,
or to coerce a conversation, or be anything
forced or contrived.
You knew
either naturally or by instinct
or maybe through your own personal trials,
you knew enough to know
that there are times when the big words
can rest for a while, and in the meantime,
sometimes, the best words to say are really simple.
Like, hey . . .
that sucks.
And sometimes, there’s a need to acknowledge
that there are no right words
or right things to say.

Sometimes, life calls for a simple degree of honesty
and it’s okay to say that yeah . . .
Life does suck
sometimes.

Words do not remove pain from the heart
or change the losses we see or feel.
Words cannot fix the ever-changing equations
or solve the emotional math
or the personal dilemmas
and no,
words are not going to remove
the fact that pain exists
or change the history which caused the pain
itself.

There is value in this honesty.
It’s worthy to note this.
And you knew it

Mathias,
I want to thank you for your help
all of those years ago.
I want to thank you for your time and your honesty.

I didn’t know how you knew
or how you understood
and while you knew that your words
wouldn’t change the way I thought at the time,
I can say that it was your understanding
of the unsaid terms
and your understanding of the unexplainable items
which we all go through,
and it was your understanding that yeah—sometimes,
life is hard. And oftentimes,
life is harder than we can handle, yet
we still have to handle it.

We still have a race to run
and a life to live which is why
so many people look to cut their race short—or quit
or go out on their sword
or by their own hand.

But you wouldn’t let me do that, now,
would you?
You didn’t let me.
You sat with me for hours
and spoke with me like people speak
and not like a person who knows it all
or like someone of authority.

No, you spoke to me
like a brother would speak to his kid brother—and to me,
this was lifesaving.

I think about you often.
Or regularly, in fact.
I think about our talk because
I didn’t have to explain myself
and more amazing was the fact that somehow,
you already knew.
You got it.
You went through something similar
and, like me,
you knew what it was like to dance with the demons
and you knew what it was like
to be haunted by the skeletons.

Dear Sir,
You saved my life—even if it cost you your own.

But I wonder . . .
I wonder if you ever thought about me.
|I wonder what your last thoughts might have been
before the noose took your neck.
I wonder if you knew how impactful you were to me
or how you inspired me to want more
or to try more—or do more
even if I swore
that I was going to fail anyway,
you taught me to try anyway because, like me,
you knew what it meant to have an incurable pain
that comes from within,
or how it is
to live with a doubt
that never seems to let you get out alive,
which is no different from dying alive
which is like being dead, only
you have the cognitive presence
to understand the weight of the world
which is heavy
and makes it so
that we can’t breathe.

You knew about this.
But to me,
I never thought anyone knew,
at least not like this.

You knew all about this
without having to ask me a question.
Yet, you and I grew up in two separate places.
We came from different backgrounds
and different cultures and we were born
from different generations; yet, regardless of our differences
somehow, you knew what I was thinking or feeling
and the only way you knew to reach me
was to be honest. And that was brilliant.

You knew to just be you
and to cut out all the bullshit
because there was no time for that.

You realized that by being human,
above anything else,
was the most lifesaving thing
that you could do for me.

I always wished I could have spoken to you
before you went.
I wish you could have seen what you did.
I am living proof
that you are more impactful
than any other person I met from “back then.”

At the same time, I have to say . . .
I get it.

See, depression doesn’t care what color skin we have
or where we grew up.
Depression and suicidal ideation
do not care about the size of our bank account
or the determined geography
or the title of our job.

Depression and mental illness
do not care about our race
nor does depression or mental illness discriminate
against anyone
even if we do.

You taught me this, sir.
You also taught me
what it means to show love
to another human being,
even if we are different or even if we don’t get along,
but more to the point, my old friend,
you showed me that Mr. Chaos is no stranger
to anyone and that misery
is always around,
and that Mr. Chaos is always
eager to make a deal.

Don’t make the deal . . .
is what you taught me.
I’m sorry that you took the deal.

I wish I could have shown you
what you showed me.
Maybe it would have saved your life
the same way
that you saved me.

Thanks, Mathias.
Sleep well, Mathias.

For you.
K.S.