i start you with a couple of songs, and their lyrics:

i know that it's vain when our friends depart
to breathe kind words to a broken heart;
and i know that the joy of life is marred
when we follow lost friends to the old churchyard

why weep for me, for i'm anxious to go,
to that haven of rest where no tears ever flow?
and i fear not my fate when it's time to depart;
i will set with the sun in the old churchyard

i rest in the hope that one bright day
Sunshine will burst through these prisons of clay
And the trumpets will sound on the hills near and far
Will wake up the dead in the old churchyard

and of course, it's New Years, so here is my preferred version of Auld Lang Syne by Haley Blais.

blood on the pavement

one night a few months ago, i was walking my dog. it was a normal occurrence. except that there was something noticeably different this time around. walking the dog is routine, it doesn't take much effort and i can put some music on and tune out the world. but this anomaly had me stopped dead in my tracks for a bit, and then walking too many blocks too far mesmerized by the intrigue. there is a story that has been told, but there is no writer, no narrator, no protagonist. on the benign, unsuspecting cement, patches of dried blood. following a cadence - the cadence of someone who had been in that location, and then in the next location, just shortly preceding the prior moment. i was captivated, i wanted to know the story, i wanted to know when and why the blood was there. and yet, as captivated as i was, i knew that there were no answers. the answers could not be created, or imagined, or relived: they simply existed at the moment that they did, with the only witnesses to bear the moment now gone. and despite how fleeting was the cadence of the bloodied individual, their blood and their story has been etched into the pavement: burnt, stained, almost corroded into the cement, making a permanent mark that cannot be removed. it has been several months, it has rained heavily, it has snowed, it has been autumn, and now it is winter, and yet this person's mark perists, similarly to the way that petroglyphs persist. grout, your hand, and the rock wall in front of you, and your memory will never be forgotten. humans hundreds of years later will place their hand on the mark you left and remember you. and just like the petroglyphs, the bloodied individual left a piece of themselves etched into the rock forever. the thought of this individual takes up more space in my mind than i'm willing to admit. we leave marks on the places we've been, on the people we've known. they are permanent, like a petroglyph, and the rest is a memory, forever etched and encoded.

relating this to myself and trying to look at myself within the context of this anecdote was not something i had planned on doing, but i recognize now why the blood on the pavement has stuck with me. this year, i had so much sorrow, and so much pain, and i lost a large chunk of friends whom i had placed so much value into. losing all of those people, and starting anew, it was not easy, and it hurt. i am okay, and i've been okay, but when i think about all of the friends who are gone now, gone with no explanation, i still have sadness. it only lingers for a brief moment, because that's all i can let it be. i've never let it be anything other than that; reminding myself of the unforgettable pieces of every person i lost makes it ache, but i let it ache, and then i let go.

i have so much sorrow, so much shit i went through this year. and i'm not sad at the start of a new year because i think lowly of myself. i'm sad because i recognize what i've lost, and i'll never forget. the parts of me that i left with the people i once was close to were only parts of me meant to be shared for a brief moment in time. the rest is stuck in our memories, all of it buried. most of it i want to forget, and the smallest parts are still filled with the sounds of laughter, echoing through my memories.