The People Who Care Only Show Up At Tombstones
Dreams, Friendships, and the Silence that Never Lifts
My greatest fear at 32 is picturing myself at 42, never having done anything about my ideas at 22.
I have this never-ending flux of visions of the past; where I was, the things I said, the people I knew —who I was. You wouldn’t notice it unless I told you.
I don’t tell anyone because these visions are either incomplete or require that you know me for decades and have the context of the situations I describe.
I wish I could tell you those visions are detailed and precise. Like you, I only remember the high or low points. Mainly the emotions involved. I remember the harsh breakup from an ex, the destruction that ended a brotherhood, the fights and anger from my now dissolved marriage, etc.
Lately, though, I have been thinking about the moments in between. The moments that weren’t too filled with vitriol, the people who weren’t necessarily upset or who I didn’t upset.
One specific mentor comes to mind. Someone who helped me get my second job when I was in Cameroon. I remember the random phone call he gave me and his advice about a position he’d heard about.
We’d known each other on a semi-friendly basis. He was a chill dude. I haven’t spoken with him in almost five years now.
I hate that side of me. That part that feels guilty for things unsaid. For letting friendships die. For not speaking up when I was offended or didn’t like something someone said.
Unfortunately, that side of me isn’t here anymore. I have this longing for a me I can’t relate to. Yet, the longing is there.
Like falling in love with the memory of a song you no longer remember.
These days, I find myself crushed by the overwhelm of being able to do too many things. My job takes most of my life—scratch that—I haven’t made the time to pursue the projects I care about, and my excuse is that I have a full-time job and don’t have time to write or make videos.
I have used this excuse very well, especially in the past month when I was drowning in the fear of not knowing which path to take, which idea to pursue, and which goal to hone in on. Add family drama and the weight of adulthood in America, and you will get a potent gut-wrenching life punch.
So, I do nothing.
I find a surrogate idea (my job) and dump all my excuses on it.
When I think of my mentor and how I left without saying goodbye, how I lied to myself that he wouldn’t mind or that he would understand, there’s a part of me, like that forgotten song, that sings of the truth of my actions.
But if this were my only struggle, I could have a shot at getting over it. When I try to make the time, drown the doubt, or pick one idea and put blinders on, there’s an even more powerful force that knocks me out: most people don’t care enough to show that they care when it matters.
The old me had difficulty admitting it, but I don’t think I’d write if no one read.
I used to say this in my articles and tried to believe it. But I don’t.
I write because I have something to say, a story to share, and if no one reads it, I feel like I’m either not good enough or I have wasted my time and should probably just get a second job.
Mind you; I have a long list of people who say they like my writing and are proud of me. It just so happens that it’s never when I need it. It’s often on their terms: during a random conversation or when I outrightly ask.
I’ve been sitting on this for a while. Wondering if my need for validation has arrived at a new high.
Let me put it this way: the moment I publish something here, and no one replies or leaves a comment, my immediate assumption is that my writing didn’t move anyone to say anything; therefore, it’s worthless.
You could tell me: maybe people are busy, maybe people love it but don’t know how to respond.
But I’ll ask you, if you saw a picture of me on your Facebook wall, saying I was no longer alive, would you leave a comment that you’d liked my writing? Or videos? Or anything?
Then how come I can go MIA for over a month or even write this, and you should don’t say anything?
That’s why I say: the people who care seem to only show up at tombstones. The comments come when we’re dead, the friendships, the love. The affection and attention.
We would speak of all the good times and the great memories only when the person we speak of can’t hear them anymore.
Life’s great, isn’t it?
A part of me wants just to bury this and carry on. To forget about wanting to be seen, to be understood. To just turn on a computer, write what I care about, and then the moment I publish—stop caring about it.
I don’t know if I can do that as I am right now. But the past month has shown me that I may have to learn not to care because if I wait for the people who care to speak up when I need that emotional and mental hug, I may never have it.
I suppose I must leave you before you leave me so my fear of breaking up can be assuaged.
I know the subtitle says “dreams, friendships, and the silence that never lifts,” but I don’t have anything to tell you about friendships.
I don’t think I know anything as I used to believe. I doubt so much these days about myself, my goals, and my future.
I’m lying on the ground writing this with my stomach hurting even though I have a table and chair right next to me.
I’ve reached a point where I have to dig into that 22-year-old, back in 2012, starting to write his blog online just because he could.
How did he lose his way? How did he start relying on others to feed his soul and for them to inspire his incredible mind?
How could ten years bring him back so far away from a love he could only describe as sparked by God?
Dreams come from a place we must honor. We get the friendships we deserve—sometimes more, sometimes less. And if the world is silent when you speak, maybe the problem isn’t the world but the depth and honesty of your voice.
Even if the people who care show up at my tombstone, I might as well give them something to talk about. I won’t be there anyway.
p.s: I am very much aware of the tone this one has, but don’t worry. I believe in a God who tends to work wonders, especially when it’s darkest. He’s not done with my story.