There is a post I have been trying to write.

And it comes together in my head, but as soon as I press the "New Post" button, and the writing interface comes up, I can't figure out what the words are supposed to be.

It's about death. And how the only certainty in life, is that we are all going to die. It's about losing someone you love. Even if it's been a while since you've seen him or her. It's about wondering if there was something you could have done. Even though you know there wasn't. It's about questioning whether it was my fault. Even if only in part.

The day after the funeral, I was working on a side project... And everywhere we went, I would find something that reminded me of him. The route we drove, we used to ride. A car next to us with a licence plate that had the same numbers - but different letters - but the same numbers as that first Vespa that he bought.

Mostly, life goes on. Every so often though, that questioning feeling resurfaces, and I hear the words Fucking Idiot escape my lips. I'm cussing him out. Not myself. Although perhaps it would be more helpful to cuss myself out instead.

And of course, now that he's gone, I question everything about our relationship. Like whether he really thought with his head instead of his penis 14 years ago, or if he just didn't really like me that much and that was how he pushed me away. Gently. Damn. This is a black hole that just sucks me in. So much effort to not go there, to just accept, to not question. No tarnishing of memories, please.

His family didn't organise a proper funeral. I shouldn't say that. I think there just wasn't enough money to hold it in a funeral home thing. So we went from the morgue to the crematorium, instead of from morgue to funeral home to crematorium. The funeral "service" was held in the carpark of the morgue, as they moved his body from freezer to the van that would take him to the crematorium. His mum, in hospice, didn't attend. His dad, perhaps, had passed away, he wasn't there. There was an uncle. And his three elder sisters. It was so strange to finally meet his family.

The photo they used on the little "altar" thing was from about a decade ago. He looked so young. He looked like the guy I met. The guy in his mid-twenties. The guy who I somehow managed to impress despite being a girl bartender. The guy who made me laugh so much. The guy who I made laugh so much. The guy who walked me home after work despite living in completely the opposite direction. The guy before life made him more stubborn... The guy I loved.

I'm glad he's no longer suffering in this life. At the crematorium, he had three or four cars burnt for him, a beautiful house, a mahjong set (which made me giggle, but then also made me cry because he was the first person who I sat next to at a mahjong table), all that paper money... In my heart, there's so much conflict. I am so sad that he wasn't Christian. Or maybe he was at the very end, and he's with my Father in heaven... but that's like the minutest of hopes...

Anyway. Post done. Sort of. Maybe now I can move on.