Today, I tried to watch Conan the Barbarian — the 2011 version with Jason Momoa. I had never seen it before, and I thought it would be a nice way to unwind, maybe even feel connected to my brother. We used to read all the Conan books together, and we’d get lost in D&D campaigns where I was always the barbarian. Those memories, the adventures we shared in that fantasy world, have stayed with me all these years. I thought maybe watching this new version would spark some of that old joy.

But things didn’t go as planned.

I had to keep the volume low, which wasn’t ideal, but I thought I could make it work. The television is always on here, and it’s hard to find a moment of quiet. I tried to create a little space for myself, a small escape. But just a few minutes in, my mom asked me to turn it off. The noise bothered her, and I could feel that old familiar tension creeping in. I was frustrated. It wasn’t even loud, but it didn’t matter. I could feel myself getting resentful, like I was a teenager again, back when I had to navigate around everyone else’s needs, constantly suppressing my own.

I couldn’t finish the movie, and that part of me that wanted to feel connected to my brother, that wanted to relive those memories of us together, felt like it slipped away. There’s something about Conan, about those stories, that will always remind me of him. But now, with the interruptions and the frustration, it feels like a reminder of everything that’s different now. I miss him, and I miss the simplicity of those days when we could just enjoy something together without all the complexities of life weighing on us.

I think I just wanted something to bring me a little joy, but instead, I’m left with this mix of emotions—nostalgia, frustration, and a sense of loss. Maybe I’ll try again another time, when I can watch it fully, when I’m in a better space to really enjoy it.

For now, I’ll have to let it go.