I’ve been thinking a lot about the recent losses of Alan Rickman and David Bowie, and for some reason I can’t shake them. I’ve heard these names for about as long as I can remember. No, not these names. These ideas. Each has been imbedded into strings of conversation, scattered occasionally on our screens, omnipresent somewhere in the backs of our heads. Both represent these strange tiny reassurances marked by their consistency to reappear. But I don’t think either of these humans have been real to me until now, and for that I feel like I’ve truly missed out.
Everywhere I look, this is what I see. Quotes, pictures, obituaries, interviews, clips, ideas, tiny remembrances, all once buried in the depths of the internet, now uncovered and dissected. I myself am guilty of it, the fact that I’m writing this proves I’m guilty of it. I know this because I never once thought to write an article on either of them when they were alive.
We’re all shaken by it, but sometimes I wonder if we feel seized right now not by the loss of these two genuine, real humans, but by the current absence of reassurance. The reassurance that we’ll continue to hear their names and see their faces in our magazines and our books and on our television screens. The reassurance that, when we speak of them, we speak without the tainted tone of remorse.
Right now, I’m mourning the fact that they’re no longer tucked away comfortably in the back of my head. I miss them for their ability’s to create fantastic works, inspire newfangled ways of thinking, to be present in the unfolding sequence of my life. I miss them and I don’t even know them. Maybe this is incredibly selfish, but it’s how I feel.
Sometimes I think about people passing away and I childishly wonder why it really ever has to happen. Scientifically, I understand why. I’m not an idiot. But sometimes I wonder really why anyone has to leave. These two artistic geniuses, these imaginative pioneers, I would wager to say we would all be a little better with them in our lives than the contrary.
It baffles me how we’re only going to speak a finite number of words during the duration of our lives. When someone dies, they will only have said some set number of sentences, written down some set number of words, been in some set number of pictures. Right now, I’m not sure that I, or anyone, can really fathom this. In my head, I’m infinite, and so is the number of words I’m going to speak. But even amidst the daydreams of my assumed immortality, I know this isn’t true. I just wish everyone would pay a little bit more attention to everything and everyone. I wish I would pay a little bit more attention.
In simpler words I’ve taken these two people for granted. They have always been relevant in my life, and I apologize for realizing that in this moment. Their passing’s are truly tragic losses, and both my wish and regret is to have expressed these feelings when they were alive.
