Who was Hugo?

It was that friend diluted in memory. That person who is swept away by the speed of life. Hugo was that acquaintance, that companion bound in the past, he was that person you remember when you pass in front of his house, that the colleague you always listen to with whom you don’t remember parting.

Hugo passed away Recently, hyenas still use it as a supplement. Today, Hugo is a void that fills the house, he is a bed without an owner, he is love without a receiver, he is a meeting without his presence, he is a conversation without his voice.

His friends are mourning his loss, and his family members are heartbroken. Not me. I would, if anything, be an acquaintance in Hugo’s head, at most. I, with Hugo, only shared classrooms, a few conversations, some laughter, an occasional disagreement and a few moments. No more, no less.

With Hugo, and I am too wrong about this, I have never spoken after finishing school. Our paths diverged and never met again. Hugo was that companion you took for granted, that extra piece in the picture of your life. He was my comrade ueSaint Joan of Orleans Battalion, He was my friendLa Salle School and he went through several plans, several games, several matches with me, but for me it was always just one more. Stuffed. white noise.

Hugo passed away and I don’t know how to feel. I see others fighting and They tear their clothes, others cry bloody tears. I only know that I owed him a beer, as much as I thought I would call him, to say hello. I owed Hugo an apology, or did he owe me? I don’t know. Hugo and I did not have a close friendship, except for the one forged in the daily life of the class, from constant meetings in the classroom.

I could lie and scream at the sky, I could publicly show how hurt I was by the passing of someone I know, but that would make me a liar. I could throw myself on the floor and whimper at the sight of death around me, but that would make me a liar, nor can I deny that his death did not strike me as a heartache, an alarm at how quickly time passes and how dark tomorrow is.

His departure, sudden and inexplicable, surprised me, it showed me that life has ups and downs unyielding and merciless. Hugo, in the equidistant of the living, suddenly became a question, a doubt, a question that torments the minds of us who knew him: is life a slowly melting ice, floating in the transparent whiskey of consciousness, or will it disappear like an ant shot down under a magnifying glass?

Because life never seems to end, until it does. Life, for the livingit overflows and death seems far away, until it approaches.

Hugo, because of the transcendence of the role, I must ask you for forgiveness, forgiveness for the meanest distancing, for the most vulgar forgetfulness, but I must also thank you for the thoughts you left me, for leaving a lesson with your memory that I had to learn by force.

But I am Being selfish, I stain your memory, your most intimate memory with the most obscene distance. Allow me then to raise a toast to your memory. Let overflowing vessels cry the tears I missed. Let me raise my glass and make your memory a warning, a reminder that prevents me from being foolish again, from hiding the uncertainty of tomorrow with the ordinariness of routine.