Nothing exists in itself.
Random train of thought:
Tristan Egolf is dead.
Stories like this fascinate me. They're everywhere: some extremely passionate person lives this amazing, busy life that is violently cut short when he or she finally stands still long enough to realize something the rest of us haven't figured out yet--or perhaps we have and we're strong enough to wrestle it to the ground and beat it into submission before going on with our lives--and he or she collapses under the weight of the sudden revelation. The next day we all get to read the obituary in the newspaper over coffee and wonder what it must be like to be so passionate and yet so dead (and not just in the physical sense), so full and yet so empty.
Thirty-three. Thinking about it, seriously thinking about it, that's not so much time. You're still poised on the edge of something great. You're still so young. You've built something for yourself but you still have the opportunity to keep working on it. Everyone is wondering what great things you will do next and some of the cynics are sitting in their offices tapping out reviews along the lines of "nothing else great can ever come from this person." (Perhaps that's what's so discouraging. So many people look at you and tell you you're amazing and then one or two people whisper that you're already fading away.) And then in the amount of time it takes to shoot a gun that opportunity is gone. And the question of what you will do next is answered, folded up, put in a drawer, and locked away.
The phrase "better to burn out than to fade away" comes to mind. You have to wonder if Kurt was onto something there.
Tristan Egolf is dead.
Stories like this fascinate me. They're everywhere: some extremely passionate person lives this amazing, busy life that is violently cut short when he or she finally stands still long enough to realize something the rest of us haven't figured out yet--or perhaps we have and we're strong enough to wrestle it to the ground and beat it into submission before going on with our lives--and he or she collapses under the weight of the sudden revelation. The next day we all get to read the obituary in the newspaper over coffee and wonder what it must be like to be so passionate and yet so dead (and not just in the physical sense), so full and yet so empty.
Thirty-three. Thinking about it, seriously thinking about it, that's not so much time. You're still poised on the edge of something great. You're still so young. You've built something for yourself but you still have the opportunity to keep working on it. Everyone is wondering what great things you will do next and some of the cynics are sitting in their offices tapping out reviews along the lines of "nothing else great can ever come from this person." (Perhaps that's what's so discouraging. So many people look at you and tell you you're amazing and then one or two people whisper that you're already fading away.) And then in the amount of time it takes to shoot a gun that opportunity is gone. And the question of what you will do next is answered, folded up, put in a drawer, and locked away.
The phrase "better to burn out than to fade away" comes to mind. You have to wonder if Kurt was onto something there.