I’m crying while I write this, the tears flow down my face in streams; a friend has just died; one whose real name I will never know, a friend I will never meet, but a friend none the less.
He will not be remembered by time, as time only remembers those who have power, empires and armies. This saddens me; he had none of these things, just the dreams of youth that will never be lived out.
This angers me; no persons should die before they have had a chance to live. And so I cry, the first time I have ever done so in grief.
All I know of him is the fact that he loved history as much as I do, and wished to help those who needed help. He found me at a time when I needed most, on the verge of falling into a despair that would have swallowed me, his words were a punch to the face that forced me to wake up. For this, I thank him now.
If I could, I would visit his grave every year, but alas I cannot, because I don’t know who he is. This makes me feel guilty; guilty because I can’t repay the kindness he showed me, guilty because I live a life he helped give me.
All these are true, and so I ask myself, where is he now? This gives me hope; hope because I believe that he is in a better place, hope that when my time comes, I will finally meet him.
His loss as much as it hurts; is now history, the history he loved and the history that I shall always remembered even if others do not. This thought makes me smile, for even as I cry…I know he is now part of something that he loved deeply, and that alone gives me happiness.