Typewriter Series #3063 | 11.3.20

I hope that you, whomever you are reading this little post on this little day, have never had suicide directly touch your life. I hope you’ve never lost someone to themselves, never had to say goodbye to someone who is already gone, never looked in the mirror and wondered if you could have done more (please know it is not your fault), never tried to understand something that is altogether too often un-understandable. I hope so, so sincerely, but I doubt it all the same. I have lost people I love to suicide, and I carry their weight daily. I wonder, daily. This poem, is not about someone I know personally, but the loss of them affected me as though I did, and obviously, still does. One of my favorite bands on earth, Frightened Rabbit, a Scottish band through and through, lost their leader a couple of years back, to suicide. Scott Hutchison was the founding member of this little band, and he sang about sorrow with such passionate hope, that I related instantly, deeply, and personally. His loss was a massive one, as he often sang about the precise way he chose to take is own life in songs before it happened. He leapt from the Forth Road Bridge in Edinburgh one night, and has been missed ever since. This poem, this little shout into the absolute

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