That'll put things into perspective.

"I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier..."

I've only had a few people leave me mid-life, so far. Only two of them have been deaths. Neither of those deaths were "end of life" deaths...least, not until now. There is nothing but fact in knowing that Bill lived a complete life, down to the very last moment.

Knowing that there's no reason to be upset is what makes this so hard.

Bill lived a full life, did everything he wanted to, got married, was happy...and I have no doubt that he's up in heaven with the God he believed so faithfully in. He was a great person, and he did so much for so many, probably without even knowing half of what he did. He affected so many lives in such a positive way...

It's really no wonder this is so hard. The world just lost one of the good ones. I'm not cynical, by nature of being, but there's not likely to ever be a person like Bill again. I'm sitting here in the library, having walked from my dorm, just so I can sit in front of a computer and at least feel a little closer. To him. To someone. To anyone.

"I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier."

Sitting here in the library willing myself not to crack and be upset because he'd tell me not to. Sitting here in the library listening to The Killers and trying not to sing along because it will make me sad and I can't sing songs like these quietly in the first place.

Is it strange that I'm this upset for someone I never actually met in person?

If you said yes, then I'm going to respectfully say you're wrong. The man is one of the reasons I even bothered really learning to write well. I was interested, sure. I was there, sure. But he was the one with the knowledge who sat down and really willed me to learn. Pointed me in the right direction and taught me.

"I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier."

It's moments like these that you really feel alone in a library, knowing that you are so lost in yourself that you have to further seclude yourself in a four story building already void of other people by putting on headphones and tuning out the silence.

I'm expecting the books to jump out at me. To be smacked in the face by an American Film Institute catalog as if someone were trying to snap me out of it. And I want to be out of it. But I want to be sad, too. I want to sit and be upset and listen to songs that remind me of people I won't see anymore, and I want to let this out.

I forget what story it was--I think it was House of the Spirits--but one of the characters says that if you are to be sad, you must be sad with every fiber of your being, let every last part of yourself be sad and upset. Then--and only then--will you be able to move on. I'm hoping this holds true, and when I'm not in the middle of a foreign building, maybe I'll give it a try.

"I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier."

For this moment, though...for this moment I will smile, knowing that I was able to know this man in the first place.

To W. Brown, October 15, 1983 - January 11, 2010: Thank you, for everything.