After The Hope Had Gone by The Narratographer

After The Hope Had Gone by The Narratographer

There is no more perfect place to spend an hour in beautiful, uninterrupted loneliness.
There is something about Corfe that makes you feel like the only person in the world. To stand at the top of West Hill, watching the world give birth to a brand new sun, is one of life’s rare timeless moments. All is quiet, all is at peace. For once, the world is how it was always meant to be.
It is unsurprising that at times like these, the mind is flooded with a thousand almost forgotten memories. You remember who would have been stood besides you, on this frosty hill, in the misty alcoves of your yesterdays. It is only when gazing down upon something in complete and utter silence that you remember all you have lost and all you will never have again. My father, my uncle, my friend.
He was my best friend, for more years than he wasn’t. If this moment was captured a few years ago, he would have been stood besides me, smoking a roll-up and constantly asking when we were going for a cup of warm coffee. We went everywhere together. We met nearly 30 years ago, sitting besides each other on a rollercoaster in Germany. We had been on a school trip together and the seat next to me at the front was the only one available. By the time we had gotten off of that ride, we were the best of friends.
From that moment on, we were inseparable. When I first got into photography, some 7 years ago, he followed me all across Europe as I took images in Paris, Bruges, Amsterdam and Carcassonne. We drank coffee outside Parisian cafes and sipped wine in the foothills of Bordeaux. We sat next to each other on empty trains and shared laughter that was meant only for us. We would speak daily on the phone, planning our next trip and talking about the big things and the little things. We both knew that one day, many years from then, we would be sat on a park bench somewhere, spending all day talking about the 70 years that had preceded us. We were the closest of friends and we were going to be that forever. That was until 3 years ago.
He had fallen in love with a wealthy Canadian woman that he met online and hot-footed it across the ocean to live with her, without so much as a last goodbye. By all accounts, he is now married and has a son. I will never again underestimate the amount a person can change when they run out of hope. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.
It is harder to grieve for something that isn’t dead. Death brings with it a closure that heartbreak sorely lacks. I have lost people to death before and have managed to eventually move on from it. But how can you ever move on from something that isn’t dead? So he died that day, and so did part of me.
Goodbye, my forgotten brother; I hope you are happy. Somehow the world is less colourful without you. My writing of late has been introspective and thoughtful, as I desperately try to find beauty in a world with one eye closed. My images and words are dark and shadowy. I guess I just miss my friend.

The Narratographer: Photos