Loek Wachtmeester 21 juni 1993 – 12 mei 2023 (an update for English readers and readers from other languages)

Loek Wachtmeester 21 juni 1993 – 12 mei 2023 Voor afspeelijsten en eerste bericht over de dood van Loek 

(als
je het Engels niet machtig bent, zet dan de tekst in Google translate
dat
je rechts bovenaan deze pagina ziet staan,eerst
om in het Engels door in het menu van Google translate op Engels te
klikken, waarna je weer kan klikken op die vertaalapp en je dan
bovenaan in het menu Nederlands ziet staan, klik daarop en de hele
tekst staat in het Nederlands, de vertaling is van een redelijk goede
kwaliteit.
Let wel in dit geval >> de tekst in de afbeeldingen wordt niet
omgezet in het Nederlands en de video is niet ondertiteld)  

I’m sorry to hear that for the translation in English it’s not clear what happened >> Loek didn’t commit suicide!! 

Loeks sister Milou send me the following beautiful text:

Dit is de hele monoloog van Midnight Mass (2021)
aflevering 7, geproduceerd door Mike Flanagan, gebaseerd op het
gelijknamige boek van Stephan King.

Myself.
My self. That’s the problem. That’s the whole problem with the whole
thing. That word, “self.” Thats not the word. That’s not right, that
isn’t……How did I forget that? When did I forget that? The body stops a
cell at a time, but the brain keeps firing those neurons. Little
lightning bolts, like fireworks inside and I thought I’d despair or feel
afraid, but I don’t feel any of that. None of it. Because I’m too busy.
I’m too busy in the moment. Remembering. Of course.

I
remember that every atom in my body was forged in a star. This matter,
this body is mostly empty space after all, and solid matter? It’s just
energy vibrating very slowly why there is no me. There never was. The
electrons of my body mingle and dance with the electrons of the ground
below me and the air I’m no longer breathing. And I remember there is no
point where any of that ends and I begin. I remember I am energy. Not
memory. Not self. My name, my personality, my choices, all came after
me. I was before them and I will be after, and everything else is
pictures, picked up along the way. Fleeting little dreamlets printed on
the tissue of my dying brain. And I am the lightning that jumps between.
I am the energy firing the neurons, and I’m returning.

Just
by remembering, I’m returning home. And it’s like a drop of water
falling back into the ocean, of which it’s always been a part. All
things… a part. You, me and my little girl, and my mother and my
father, everyone’s who’s ever been, every plant, every animal, every
atom, every start, every galaxy, all of it. More galaxies in the
universe than grains of sand on the beach. And that’s what we’re talking
about when we say “God.” The cosmos and its infinite dreams. We are the
cosmos dreaming of itself. It’s simply a dream that I think is my life,
every time.

But
I’ll forget this. I always do. I always forget my dreams. But now, in
this split-second, in the moment I remember, the instant I remember, I
comprehend everything at once. There is no time. There is no death. Life
is a dream. It’s a wish. Made again and again and again and again and
again and again and on into eternity. And I am all of it. I am
everything. I am all. I am that I am.