I understand that you didn't end it, no, you were murdered. You were brutally murdered by hate, by a ing depression that went deep and deeper, by the crude words of a doctor that argued the blame was on you. Your thoughts were on a war, a battle that tore you from extent to extent, but you were a strong soldier. You were fractured by your strength, you endured a lot on your own, didn’t you?

You were worned out, your energy drained, and the cancer of depression ate you up. You were strong, you were stronger than your doctor’s indifferent arguments, but you were betrayed by the world that didn’t try to hug the fragments of the troubled you. You were tired of imploring for a hug, you were bored of expecting the end. You wanted the problems to stop, yet you were ignored. You wanted them to stop, didn't you? Yet you were ignored, weren't you?

The ing depression emptied you, bothered you, fractured you, ate you up, ended you, murdered you. It stepped on you, battled your strenght, and - though you proved to be a strong soldier – you were drained to the extreme. It ing ended you, it was that cancer, it wasn't you.

Yet, you demanded me to let you go. You want me not to hold on, but how do you expect me not to? Let me hug your fragments, let me betray your words and hold onto you, let me upset you and cry your death. I want to cry blood, cry and cry, cry and not let go.

I understand it’s not yet my end, that ing depression that ate you up is upsetting me, but for you I will stand up and battle it on my own. Thank you, Jong, you worked hard and you were a great man.

I loved, I love and I will love you.