I think I'm starting to realise some things about myself. Some things I never actually dared to admit because I know it's right (talk about denial, I'm a hundred percent) and haha, God's realised that I have to wake up some day and He's decided The Time Has Come.

I really don't know how to be a friend.

It's not that I haven't been trying. Really. I don't know if it's me or if its just them - some people say I spoil them too much. This might be something to do with the gifts, or it might just be that I have a soft spot for hurt so I really like that snail to cling onto me. I don't really know when to stop being there.

And here you are, telling me that you are gona die. Ideally, in my other universe, i.e my head, the situation isn't what it is. The doctors made a mistake, yeah, you're just being silly, you heard wrong. Or I jump in with these beautiful words that make you cry and get up and stop all this shit and save your ass because of all the good advice and healthy, bland food I force you to eat. I would love to be able to do that. Again, it's not that I haven't been trying. But it's so impossibly difficult I really need you to work with me on this.

But then, although in theory I would be awesome and come up with all these sweet, sweet words that make you feel so safe you would stop crying, or give you an adrenaline rush and speed up all bodily healing processes; or in theory, I would fly over to where you are and hug you so tight and tell you that I need you to stay alive; or in theory, I would be the one right til the end, even if all else turned out bad; or in theory, I would know what to say, or do.

Yet in practical I fail so badly. I wanted to save you, but I didn't know how. I wanted to say all the right things, but nothing came out. I wanted so badly to do something that would just make all this go away and keep you there. But I couldn't.. as if some witch just put a spell on me and I'm just stuck in the moment, doubting your words. I don't know if you're lying, because you have - I don't know if you're telling the truth, because you have, either way.

I really want to be a really good friend, and yet I am turning incoherent.

Stuck by your words, stuck by the reality of it all. This might be a fancy essay, but death is no fancy procession. It just comes and takes you away, that is all it does. You might have a funeral and going-away ceremony, but with death itself it's swift - sometimes as sharp as a swiss army knife, sometimes as fast as bolts of lightning separating molecules - and so swift, you'll just miss it in the blink of an eye.

And that's why I can't blink and turn away and pretend everything's allright. On the bright side, I've grown stronger. I don't ever remember how I could sit through that conversation and tell a dying person that it's all gonna be allright when I know maybe this time words can't turn the tables around. I also still don't know how to save you - heck, saving myself is hard enough. I just had no idea what to talk to you about, how to talk about vegetables and relationships and I didn't know how to talk about the weather and the summer and the winters and the plane ride and my itunes when all you were doing was crying in your bed knowing you wouldn't be able to do this very soon.

It's painful when it's like this. Call it swift, if you will. If he's taking you away, then do it before I fall in love.