I am aware that it is harmful that I consciously convince myself of the comforting fantasy that he is just an old friend who I fell out of touch with. That somewhere he is living a life: Following his dreams, Falling in love, Making strangers smile. That I will see him again, in a crowded bar, or at a backyard birthday, where we will catch up like we do and he will be there and the world will be right.
Then it will hit me. In the midst of mundane daily details, If I let my mind go numb for the smallest of seconds, reality will rush in and engulf me and scratch on the back of my skull and crash through my chest with more mercilessness and more weight than I knew the world could carry (it is far too much for me to carry). I am forced to remember why the night feels a little more black with one less lighthouse to remind me where home is.
But sometimes I blindly smile. Because how lucky were we, Peter Panβs lost boys, to have had such a brilliant brother to have lit up our sky at all?