One way to avoid the grasp of the vacuous gap is to begin afresh in a place that is strange and new. To start again. Become reborn. I have noticed how Limbo inspires a sort of death amongst the Irish youth. The long-standing trend of emigration to escape a young mindset after it becomes obvious how unbearable the pain is, for any half-matured soul, to remain living near the grave of its youth. Home becomes only an aftertaste of past happiness, a reminder of what was pure free-spirited childhood. A particular street corner paired with a certain type of weather, this can send a mind back to a time of less mess. And even if it wasn’t such a great time, it still feels that way in retrospect. And so a permanent change is then demanded, an escape, a sudden move toward the next place, whatever that is, whatever it looks like, feels like, so long as there’s a semblance of blind hope, faith, for something better, in this direction many of the not-yet-adults will continue to march. 

As loved ones fade from my life I can’t help but draw a comparison to death. I mourn their loss. Pre-death funerals are held in their honour, grand processions of pain disguised as celebrations of the person’s life. It’s the dark daytime fantasy for which we’ve all yearned, to attend our own funeral, see who showed up, who spoke, who got too drunk to mask their inner anguish. In a way, these are the parties thrown for the people who had the balls, ovaries, whatever, to cut Limbo off at the knees. The people who said, “You want my fun young life? Here, take it, I’ll go get a new one. I’ll chance my arm that there’s something better beyond this grey-skied monotony.” These are the parties thrown for those who revel in the vast potential of the future, the believers and faith-seekers, while the scared rest of us mope around in awe, wondering if we too should convert, pull the trigger, end our current lives and follow on into the wholly blank unknown.  

The goodbye parties are even designed like funerals. Little black and white portraits of the almost-dead decorate the walls of everyone’s online canvas. Captions read variations on sentiments like “You’ll be missed” and "Taken from us too soon.” The entire space is filled with sweet flavoured smoke from vape-shaped candles. The blood of Christ is imbibed. Music booms from one corner. People sing. A man no one knows too well rambles on about nothing. The soon to be dead is the topic of every conversation, their name carrying a certain awkward pain. And it’s all over much too quick. That’s it? A twenty-three-year lifespan wrapped up in a couple of hours, the runtime of two films? But I love this person. It took me my whole life to find this person, an unbelievable amount of luck. How can it end? Why does it have to? Why? 

I’ve started to wonder, as more of my friends pass on, what is the best way to communicate with the dead? Should we visit their graves? Talk about them constantly? Whisper to them through the night with our elbows propped up on our bed’s edge? In song and poetry? Should we sleep beside a framed picture of them? Probably not. 

Friends sometimes come together to die as a group. It’s known to be less scary and painful this way. Everything is better with company and escaping Limbo is no different. The real trick with this, however, is to announce your death before anyone else can announce theirs. This way there’s still enough people left alive, on this plain reality, to make your funeral somewhat fun. 

I enjoy witnessing the vast characters who appear at these events: old and new friends, work colleagues, ex-partners, people being slept with, unknown neighbours, faces from college and school and almost strangers, the names that are so rarely ever put to faces. Much like a funeral, these goodbye parties are truly a who’s who of human connection. People come to pay their respects to the person they once knew, hung out with, loved, even if they haven’t seen them in nearly a decade. Because there’s a melancholy which arises from the absoluteness of the loss, the high chance that you’ll never see this particular person ever again. And so you begin to crave a kind of closure that you didn’t expect. It seems only right that you say goodbye, good luck, thanks for the memories and safe travels to wherever you end up. Perhaps I’ll see you again, on the other side, in some new form of life.