He could have lived out his whole life and I’d only have known when it happened. I don’t even know who he is. Because when we met, there was no small talk. There was only silent reassurance blaring through uncomfortable earphones. There was someone older, nodding to a child on the street, stranded in the rain. That nod was warmth. And that child knew that it meant something. That child survived the storm.

How do I explain that I just want him to be alive and breathing? That it wouldn’t matter what he does or where he is. It wouldn’t matter that I won’t know. It would only matter that the person who was just like me, with someone disappointed in him, was happy now.

Feeling so faithless Lost under the surface

When I look back at my childhood, I don’t remember much. I remember failing three quarters of my subjects in school and being a source of so much exasperation for everyone around me. I remember crying without understanding why I was sad.

I remember Linkin Park. A silver disk that said ‘700 mb’. There were 100s of songs but only one artist’s got played. On repeat.

Can’t you see that you’re smothering me?

Numb was never a song, though. It was an anthem. And it had always been a feeling. A band had done an entire generation the service of drawing that feeling out into sheets of music.

We didn’t have a computer or internet and we didn’t know that you could look up the lyrics to your favourite music. But we learnt it anyway. Each word became clearer on each replay.

Caught in the undertow.

The lyrics shared a kinship with the look in my eyes whenever I was screamed at. In school. At home.

I remember listening to the cassettes over and over again in the back of a car that was headed to Goa from Bangalore. The insect man on the cover of Hybrid Theory always gave me the creeps. I had one earphone and my cousin the other. We sang along with every song, well into the night. It was a wonder my uncle and aunt didn’t shout us down at any point.

We fumbled the words while we sang. We didn’t know them all. But we understood each one.

You all assume I’m safe here in my room

I also remember a tiny MP3 player that belonged to my brother. He didn’t like it when I touched his things but I’d take it when he was gone and listen to Breaking The Habit on repeat.

I had nowhere to sit in that backroom but I’d pace while I listened. I’d imagine being on a stage and crooning the words out to the world because it didn’t feel like these words belonged to someone else. It felt like they were mine. Borrowed. But they’d always been mine to begin with.

I am much more than any time before

They’re saying that when you kill yourself from depression it isn’t a choice. Someone said that on my Twitter feed when I was anxiously scrolling through it after finding out what had happened. They also said we need to do what we can and reach out to people who need it. I know they’re right, of course. But for the first time in years I can’t be the one reaching out. I’m the lonely boy again, with Breaking The Habit playing on repeat.

It feels right.

A black wind took you away From sight

It feels right to nod into the void and say that it’s okay, what he did. That escape isn’t shameful. That it doesn’t mean he wasn’t strong. That it’s the world that’s always been too weak.

That he’s given a generation his voice.

That he was never a disappointment.

And held the darkness over day That night

At the same time, though, I guess this is me reaching out. To you. Today, we’re millions of people listening to the same songs and grieving the same person and yet we’re feeling disconnected in some profound way.

This is my nod to you. We’re all alike. And we’re going to be okay.

And the clouds above move closer Looking so dissatisfied.

I don’t know if there’s any more to say. Except…

And the ground below grew colder As they put you down inside

Chester Bennington.

But the heartless wind kept blowing Blowing

Chester Bennington. Thank you.