It's okay to say it. Larry is dead.

It's okay to say it. Larry is dead. Now that it has been a few weeks, people seem to avoid the "taboo" subject, as if I would break down and cry, or as if they would be clawing at the scab that has just began to firm into brown red crust over my wound that we all know will scar, no matter how many bandaids we reapply. Honestly, I'd rather people just say, "how are you handling Larry's death?" Not saying it doesn't make it go away, and I'm aliright. You won't make me remember, because I never forget -- there's a little shadow that follows me wherever I go. Sometimes it is behind me, and when the sun reaches its zenith, I barely notice it at all. But those times aren't the best. My favorite is when the moments before twilight come, when it is plain right before me, I can't avoid it, stretched to its longest, magnified larger that it is even in actuality. Those are the hard moments. But they don't last for long, and not as long as they should. I wish they would come a little more often, and keep me company for moments instead of instants.

Life has thrown some interesting things at me lately, and while I am the most equipped to handle them that I ever have been, I am still incredibly weak, young, and vulnerable. Larry's death has been really difficult and painful. But I have outstanding support and wonderful friends, and I know I will make it through, stronger and wiser, albeit a little sadder, than before. Sadness. Laced in all that I do, see, feel, taste, touch. But Beauty is still right there beside it. Along with something new: Hope. My joy is still pure.

I'm living life, loving to my full capacity, looking for wisdom and happiness. I'm not afraid of fucking up now and then, of crossing a boundry instead of testing it, or of falling down and scarring my knees. It's all part of this great gift we call life. In this way, I see myself as a breathing, thinking, feeling tribute to Larry and the time we spent together.