I was not long back in Second Life, not even a full month. I had just re-opened Clover’s Kitchen and was taking a break from setup to hang out with some friends in Seven Isles. Chocobo races, if memory serves. That was the day I (as Clover) met Cern Glenwalker, a sensitive, kind fellow who wore grand antlers on his head. We got to talking and in not much time struck up a RP romance.
Perhaps they seemed an unlikely match. Clover, married to her work and devoted to her daughter; Cern, a lonesome widower and old-fashioned romantic.
Of course in the time of the pretend romance, what I like to hope was a genuine friendship was born.
This is the part where I look back, where I scour my memories, to think if there was something I could have said or done differently, where I ask myself if I was really a good enough friend to someone so deeply, so painfully, in need of one. I don’t know if I could have made things different. Probably not.
We ended up going our ways. The RP was too much for me to keep up with, with re-opening a shop and all the marketing and stocking and all that went with it. He’d pop into the Wee Little Irish Pub from time to time– wish I had a picture of that red kilt he wore– but time went on, the pub closed, the clientele went their ways, things got quiet.
I only got the news, on New Year’s Eve, of just how quiet.
Depression. Fuck. Depression is a horrible, torturing, silencing, scourge which kills. It twists your mind by making you afraid to talk to people about how much it’s truly making you suffer. It freezes your heart until you start to think nobody cares and nobody can possibly know what it’s like. It’s killed people I know. It’s claimed the life of another someone I used to know.
And I am stung in the heart by his loss. Anyone who knew him at all must surely be.
Cern, whose real name I didn’t even know until recently, is now a ghostly name on my friends list, linking to someone who will never log on again. Another good human being, swallowed up by the ice.