If you do not know Mark Alexander or do not know what happened, please do not read this post. I understand that this is a public weblog, but this post is not meant for public consumption. Things in it may seem vague if you are ignorant to recent events because I respect the family’s privacy and will not divulge things that are better kept within a circle of friends. This is in the news, but I will not provide a link. My choice to be discreet is better characterized by Brian, who gave the finger to Channel 12.
I was not sure if I should be writing this, so I checked Justin’s weblog. He wrote about it. His post is a bit more erratic. It was earlier. Things were still developing.
Who am I kidding? I didn’t even know her, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. It really hasn’t settled down since Justin’s writing.
I decided that it was my duty to write this because I had to acknowledge what occurred. It would not be right to go on as if nothing happened, so even though I do not want anybody besides Justin or Lippy (or another of Mark’s friends who reads my weblog—none that I know of) to read this, my choice is between abandoning weblogging forever or to write this against my better judgment.
The hardest thing for me was telling people. I verified what Craig and Alex had heard, but more difficult was telling my parents and Sam, who had no idea what had happened. I had to bring it up with them because they deserved to know. Each time the word—the word of the deed—came out, my voice faltered.
I felt awful since I found out from Justin yesterday, so I can barely imagine what Mark must be going through.
Your friends love you, Mark.
He is such a great guy. I did not know her, but from what I hear they were very similar. When I learned of this I was afraid Mark would lose his spark. I waited until I got home from school to call him. Calling was made easier by the extraordinary combination of his friends and his own will. Brian had left school and spent the day with him, he invited a few people this afternoon who are currently with him, and he made plans for a movie tomorrow night.
My short chat with him was true to what Brian had said. He was handling his predicament as well as anybody could. More than any emotion, he was grateful for friends reaching out to him. Even after talking to Brian, I expected more sorrow. It seemed unnatural, but he was already numb to the pain. He told me that he had cried earlier.
I could not help but think about September 11. I felt the same way. In either case I only knew people who knew people. From my distance, the death was not of people, but of an integral part of life. What do you mean the Twin Towers fell? How can they not exist anymore if they always had and always were to stand tall and proud as a symbol of the city and its people? How can Mark not have her anymore? How can this core part of one’s being disappear from their life?
It is so frustrating that what happened is over and done with. There is nothing anybody can do—nothing anybody can say. All we have is each other, and we are all useless. The canvas of the past is still so recent and raw in our hearts and minds, but the devil is holding our paints and is laughing as we reach with our brushes. We all want to help Mark, but he cannot even help himself. All anybody can do is continue to live.