On death

The deaths of people we’ve never met have cast a fog around our hearts this month. Here are some reasons why:

Because even though we knew Lemmy was living on borrowed time, we thought he’d borrowed more.

Because David Bowie has provided the soundtrack for our lives, again and again.

Because Alan Rickman brought characters to life.

Because even though it’s in the script that some characters have to die, we hoped the script for real life was different.

Because they made us bold.

Because the disease that brought our icons down is the same disease that people we know in real life — our personal icons — are fighting with knives and swords and piss and vinegar.

Because there’s so much art that hasn’t been created yet and we don’t know if we can do it alone.

Because these people took us on trips into outer space, into London, into storybooks, into ourselves.

Because they weren’t done yet.

Because we aren’t done yet.

Because all of our scripts end the same.

Because we are all on borrowed time.

(Sorry; I didn’t mean to be a downer, but I suppose if you’re reading this, you were already down. There was a fox in my yard this morning, the color of rust, standing on a rock, bold as you please. I know he’s responsible for the gray feathers under the maple, strewn about like the remnants of a deadly pillow fight. Still, his presence cheered me up a bit. I’m sure the birds felt otherwise.)

Go outside today, y’all.

Sending love, stars, mutton chops and metal,

M