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He would have hated this……
Driving back from rehearsal and got stuck for twenty minutes. Could have gone around but didn't feel like it. So I Just sat there watching the grey sky get darker and darker.
Attila was trying to explain some concept for the new material. Something about "the void" or whatever. He's good, don't get me wrong.He's really talented. But I kept looking at the corner of the room just like Øystein used to stand when we were writing. He had this way of tapping his foot that was out of time with the music but somehow perfect anyway.
……What should that look like?I can't seem to remember clearly.my mind blurred.
I realized today that I can't remember the sound of his laugh. That's what time does. It doesn't take the big things first. It takes the sound of someone laughing while you were both too young to know better.
The new guy—Teloch, though he's not new anymore, just newer than me.he asked if I wanted to grab a beer after. I said no. Just because I could feel it coming. The stories,he probably'd ask "hey Jørn, tell us about "91" or whatever shit. And I can't. Not today.
The sky is completely white now. No texture. Just blank.
I should eat something. Or call someone,like Jan hellhammer.Or take a pill and sleep until tomorrow when I have to pretend to be the legend again.Being the legend is exhausting when you were just trying to be a kid who didn't get ignored.
but you can't sleep anymore.You know what time it is. Three in the morning. The sleeping pills aren't working tonight. I'm staring at the ceiling and my brain decides, oh let's listen to Depeche Mode. Music For The Masses. Track three. You must know the one. Øystein loved this album. I tell people it's my favorite when I'm sad, which is... well, often enough I guess. But honestly? Sometimes I can't remember if I actually love this music, or if I just love it because he did. Because he put it on in that tiny rehearsal room in Ski, back when we were just kids who thought we could change the world with noise. We were so stupid. So fucking idealistic. He was the communist with the blonde hair, and I was the street kid who just wanted to belong somewhere. We dyed each other's hair black that day. Black like our clothes. Black like the future we thought we wanted. Thirty years. Thirty years of telling stories about him, and sometimes I catch myself wondering... did I make half of it up? Did I exaggerate the friendship because I needed him to be my best friend more than he actually was? Or did he love me back just as much, and I was just too high to notice? The song's ending now. Enjoy the silence.Right. Tomorrow there's another interview, another person asking me to explain what it was like back then. How do you explain that you're still grieving someone who died three decades ago, when everyone else has moved on? That you're still angry, still jealous, still... God, I don't know. Still here, I guess.
Goodnight, Øystein. Wherever you are. I hope they have Depeche Mode there. Or maybe I hope they don't. Maybe I want to keep that for myself.