This last month has taught me so much. It hasn’t come in coherent thoughts. My brain split and pulled apart. My memory and stream of consciousness flew out like the Big Bang. Only just this week have I started to feel my gravity pulling my thoughts back toward me, as they fidget and bump against each other—trying to put themselves back together —to make sense.

That’s how most of my thoughts are, still, so that’s how I write right now. It’s not normally been my style. I’ve been limited to a very straightforward writing process—linear—probably because of all of the writing styles I’ve been taught to mimic over the years. I don’t say this bitterly; I’ve benefited greatly from these styles. My writing is precise, and it is accurate. I’ve learned writing as an instrument, a tool. I see things in sentences that most people don’t. Words break apart like the poles of a tent. I see noun phrases, verb phrases, prepositional phrases, clauses, asides, and fragments. They pull apart and separate. I see them as parts that my eyes can lift up and rearrange. Ah, technical writing classes …

Creative writing classes taught me to break the rules to express emotion and convey feeling: communicate in a way that makes your audience feel something that you want them to. To mess with the tempo of the reader. To set their pace. Slow them down. And. Stop. Slap a period—zoom from the dash just to show them the difference in your writing and the craft it takes to control them as you speed them through the next section, only to leave them wanting it faster, for you to keep going just a little bit longer. They want you to tell them how to feel. And you will—if you do it right.

But, the technical writing classes taught me all of the rules. I’m good at breaking them. I’ve always been a rule breaker. I’m a rebel, a patriot. My heart bleeds, but it doesn’t bleed red or blue. Red, white, and blue, yes. I’m a family man without a family man of my own, though that may be in my future. I want to do things in life. I have so many hopes and dreams. I have so much more to do, and I don’t know how long I have to do them. It’s overwhelming, really. It’s hard to focus on just one thing, and that’s not my fragmented brain talking. I mean, I did name my blog The Man of Many Hats. I’ve always been this way. I want it all. I want everything. And I want it now.

Right this very moment, I just want a couple of hats to choose from. It’s exhausting.

I already feel like I’m rambling because I haven’t paid much attention to what I’ve written so far. There is no string for you to follow back to the source unless you were in my head this whole time. Be glad you weren’t—trust me. I think I said something earlier about everything I’ve learned recently. I’ve had all kinds of introspective waves of thinking crash down on me lately, and this is what I’ve learned:

The only bright spot in having the greatest trial of your life, to have to see things and feel things that most people shouldn’t, is that when you get through it, recover, you will be the strongest you’ve ever been in your life. It's simple logic.

Nothing is easy just because it sounds like a motivational poster when you type it out (see above). It’s the fucking hardest time of your life, people! It’s going to take time, luck, love, help, and perseverance.

I can’t take personal credit for anything in my life. It’s amazing how much I rely on the people I choose to be in it. Every success I have is not mine alone. I’ve been humbled.

Character tests work with who you are like the levels of ability and skill in a video game. Most games, you improve each separate area in increments independent of each other by gaining experience points and completing missions. Like the games, you can’t grow one area disproportionately from the other, or so it seems. And, I hope it that’s how it works: I need to level up in a lot of areas.

Have some goddamned principles in life. Live by them. Don’t compromise yourself because it’s always too costly. I always respected Clay for his convictions. It was one of the many reasons I looked up to him. My southern upbringing taught me to admire a man for his convictions. It’s a common ground based on honor.

My vision has been blurred, but I can see clearly now … that the rain is still there. You have to look between the drops to see anything. Don’t go to fast. Focus on the important things, and block out what’s unimportant.

Create something in life. The only thing stopping you is yourself. Never be afraid of what’s in this life. It’s only what’s after it that should scare you. I hate to quote RENT, but, yes, to quote RENT—I don’t care what you think of it: “No day but today.” I can always quote some Newsies if you want … :-p

Use emoticons to tell people how you feel, and tell everyone how you feel. Be honest. Don’t hide from yourself. That’s a dangerous game, my friend. Also, I lied. I’ve always been a big fan of emoticons. They may not speak a thousand words, but they can take the place of a sentence or two.

Seriously, a wink can take you pretty far—and get you pretty far ;-)

Sass.

Or, I’m kind of uncomfortable with this situation :-/

Ha, I’m never uncomfortable. That’s your mistake for taking that one that way if you’ve ever gotten it before. I may be weakened, but you’ll never get to see it, unless I want you to, then I trust you. But, I might just want you to think I am, too. I’ll keep you on your toes but make you feel flatfooted. You don’t play chess well without learning how to make moves.

Man, this stream doesn’t even seem to have the same formula for water in it anymore. Do you like it? Do you want more. Either way, I will give you what you really want, even if you don’t want it. I’ll stop ;-)

Being Clay’s friend was truly a gift. If you knew Clay, you knew the honest light that he was able to bring into any room and any conversation. He lived his life hard and completely unfiltered. Yes, his life was cut far too short, but he lived and loved more in his 27 years than most of us, if we’re lucky, will live in 60.

I use to imagine us all growing old together: He’d be there standing next to me (or close to me because picking my best man still isn’t a lock) at my wedding; we’d take our sons camping and teach them the ways of the woods; on Saturdays, we would tailgate before the MSU football games; and on weeknights we’d injure ourselves playing softball at the River—where he would somehow become the best hitter on the team … Okay, so that last one was pushing it. But, we would grow old gracefully and peacefully, reliving all of our old stories and reminiscing about how we got to where we are.

I didn’t know that that was this year. This was the year we would grow old together. This was the year we would share our last memories. One last everything. The stories we shared on our front porch are the only glory days I get to relive with him. All the fears and hopes we shared together are mine, now. And it’s crushingly lonely. He won’t be at my wedding, though I will wear his ashes around my neck, and I will have him. We won’t take our sons camping together. He won’t be there the next time I’m in a fight, either. And, we won’t get arrested for being drunk and disorderly at an MSU football game in our 50s. Maybe that last one is a bonus. Nah, I'll miss that, too.

It hurts. It’s not the normal type of hurt. I’m no stranger to pain or agony. When you live a life of love, you learn to lose because of the temporary nature of this beast we call life. But this—this is different. It’s more empty than what I’ve ever felt before. I can’t see the bottom, and my cries only return to me from the echo of the crumbling walls leading down. Down. Right now that is the only direction.

Sometimes the loss and my experience that night leads me tumbling, bouncing off the rocks only to feel the shock of something, something human—anything human. The numbness that comes from reaching terminal velocity is terrifying. The pain reminds me that I’m alive. I’m still here. And I’m not alone. I have support. I have a reason to snap out of this. And I do.

I won’t ever have Clay as a friend again, but I will always have him. I wear a different hat, now. I wear his hats: what he left for me, who he was. I don’t know what stories I will share in the future to show you what we are all missing; there are so many to choose from. I don’t know how I will ever live in his honor; there are too many ways to honor him. Do I try to be as strong as he was, both physically and spiritually? Do I write and perform more music? That may be hard. He knew all the words to my songs and would sing them around the house and at work. I still hear his voice in my head. Do I go hiking and loose myself in the love of Mother Nature? Do I even have the strength to do anything besides stabilize my life and hold on to everything I care about before it is ripped away from me? I know there is a message in all of this: a lesson to be learned. I will find it.

All in time. I need more time. We all need more time. We all want more time …

I can’t leave this alone without saying something positive and encouraging. During the chaos, a good friend of mine messaged me and told me this:

Live your life that way! People always say that actions speak louder than words. I say do both: tell of love and live in love. Grow old while you're still young. Regret nothing. Remember everything.

Clay would fucking kill me if I ever said, "Rest in peace" to him (that was never his style), so I say, "Keep kicking ass, Clayton Kent Stevens." I’ll be missing you.