Afterimage

When I was six, my father went to work in Bandung Indonesia for some time, and we moved there with him. There, I attended an international school where I learned english and met people from all around the world.

Among these people was Silas Skonnord (it's funny that I haven't known his surname for years): I remember the fun times we had together, I remember attending his birthday party and visiting his place, I remember hiding from teachers during breaks at school, I remember sharing thoughts about films we watched the evening before. He was the bad-ass that I wanted to be at that time, he was the coolest eight year-old guy for a seven year-old boy such as I was. 

Then, I got back to Italy and we lost touch for years, until I found him on facebook in 2009: it's not like we talked lots (I think, in fact, we only talked like once since we "met" again), but it was nice to read (and hear: he was a talented singer) from him every once in a while.

And now he's gone all the memories are flooding back and I'm sad. I knew he was sick, but when you're twenty-four you think you're immortal and everyone else is.

I miss him a bit.

"Suddenly you were gone 

from all the lives you left your mark upon..."