I’ve always found obituaries one of the most difficult things to write; if you really admired the person, you could never stay away from your emotional side enough to write ir properly, and if the person were indifferent to you – well, what kind of obituary would you write, then?
Amy Winehouse was found dead today in her apartment in London – there, I said it. If only things could be so simple and we could stick to this sentence and pretend nothing happened the obituary would be so much easier to do. But the more you want to say the more you realise that words aren’t enough; at this point, even music isn’t enough, for if it was, it would have kept her alive.
Forget the so-called 27-Club. Forget the drugs, forget the booze. Forget the career marked by bitter moments as many – or even more – as downward-spiral ones. Forget about everything and imagine yourself torn in the inside, with no place to go and feeling like you’re living on borrowed time, that you’ve only come to this world to share your genius and, done that, life doesn’t make any sense anymore.
Picture yourself relating to Amy, being in her shoes for a while. You’d be filled with an immense sadness concealed by any addictions possible, facing the rising demands of people that make money through your voice and that will steal little pieces from you any time they can. And you will pretend it doesn’t hurt.
And eventually you’re numb – it really doesn’t matter anymore. So you don’t give up on life; life gives up on you, and as you feel it leaving your body you meet again the peace you thought was lost forever.
0 Responses to “And now the final frame/ Love is a losing game”