Of life and death and thoughts of these

This was not meant to happen, but here it is.
There’s something about death that makes us think of ours, always. You never really realise how complete, how absolute it is until you hear about it and you think, he’s gone. He’s actually gone. And there’s nothing. No coming back, no hearing his voice, no laugh. Nothing. It’s so sudden and so… odd, really. How is it possible that /nothing/ remains? Of what was only hours, even minutes ago, a life, a consciousness, a healthy body throbbing with vitality- everything is gone?
Too many people I care about have died in this past year.
Robin Williams was one of them. He was my childhood in so many ways. I took him for granted. He wasn’t my favourite actor in the way that actors whose acting I’m conscious of, are: he was just there, ever-present, in the background, as Mrs. Doubtfire, as John Keatings, as Alan Parrish, as Teddy Roosevelt. I remember this automatic smile that would turn up the corners of my lips whenever I saw him on screen. I remember going to watch Mrs Doubtfire with my dad and my brother. I remember loving Genie and thinking he’s my favourite character. He was always there in the shadows, you see- even in Lucifer’s “Good Morning, Vietnam” in Supernatural season 6. I just never really thought about it. Like so many others, I never looked at the man himself: only at his laughter, his jokes, his toothy smile.
It feels like my childhood is dying, bit by bit, slipping away from me every day. Or am I growing up, or are others growing old, or is time simply passing?
I have not been so moved, so personally affected by anyone’s death since I heard about Philip Seymour Hoffman’s going. The others, at least they lived long and well. At least they didn’t die in pain. It is life’s cruelest irony that I can’t even give these masters the consolation of claiming that. And somehow, in that fact, all the pain of loss, all the blackness of death seems to reside.

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