"Be the Change you wish to see in the world" -Gandhi "I will be a Hummingbird, I will do the best that I can." -Wangari Maathai "Where stereotypes begin with a grain of truth, cliches begin with a boulder" - George Watsky "And she's gonna learn, that this life will hit you - hard - in the face - wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach, but getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs, how much they like the taste of air." - Sarah Kay "Do not fear what has blown up. If you must, fear the unexploded." -Suheir Hammad


7 years ago I witnessed my first death. My classmate died from a brain aneurism. I participated in things for him, because it was what seemed right to do. I was 10. I didn’t understand death. I knew he was gone, but besides him the only death I’d seen was in movies. To me death wasn’t real. I had the bracelet that was made in honor of him. I wore it everyday until I had to remove it for some reason. I went to his memorial all the time, until I didn’t have time. Slowly he started to slip. Until yesterday I’d forgotten his existence. According to Mayan and Aztec beliefs that’s the third death. But is it reincarnation when you remember? 
In my mind he’s my age, because the last perspective I have of him is on the portable outside of the school. Our teacher was late for school. We waited outside until she came. Or how he always beat me on turning in tests early. He was so smart. But in my perspective he was on the same level as I was. Not until yesterday when I saw a picture of him next to a picture of his classmates, who are still in my perspective did I realize the change. 
Where does it go? Those 7 years, were they wasted? If he had the chance to come in the place of someone else, as long as he bettered there life, would my life be a candidate? Would he want us to appreciate more? Or focus more? Does he see where we mess up and try to help us out, or is he bitter about us forgetting about him? Can he even look down upon us, or is this a diluted version we tell ourselves, to keep him here. Is he offended by that last statement because he’s never left any of his old classmates, no matter how close he was to them? 
And yet to all of those questions I hear nothing but the roar of thunder outside my bedroom window mixed with a little rain and, most importantly, silence. My questions cannot be answered. In fact, they won’t be answered.

Death is a funny thing. It’s one of the most common occurrences in the world. Most pondered upon. Most curious subject. But is anyone any close to discovering the secrets behind it?

R.I.P. Weston Smith December 28, 1993 - December 30, 2004