Lost Boy Goes Home

You know what, I can’t even write about people dying anymore. It became so frequent and overwhelming, I can’t deal with it. I can’t analyze it. I can’t justify it. I can’t comprehend it.

Tired of being mad at upstairs for taking just about everyone that circumscribed my childhood, tired of being reminded of my own mortality, just all together tired.

I don’t want to discuss his drug use and the fact he brought it on himself, tired of that too. But what I will say is the world we live in at the moment, the society we’re part of is worst than shit, and unfortunately drugs, alcohol, pills, and so on became crutches some people use to get through the freaking day.

I’m not judging.

I’m not thinking.

I’m not even here.

Sorrow.

I’ll never forget his face, and even though sad, I’m fucking proud of my generation and its idols. I thank heavens every day for being this age and not living in a world were Montags, Kardashians, and Hiltons mattered.

Idols of my time might all be fucked up, drugged up, and faded up; but at least they were all damn talented, great, decent human beings who had a heart and emotion about their art, and the world they inhabited for the time they did. And if having a heart, empathy, and awareness about this world got them disheartened about it; so be it.

Better to be like that, than to be today's “star” that would sell their mother for a piece of undeserving fame.

However fucked up we might be, we're about the last generation that was and is legitimately cool.

And coolness can't be bought.

Rest in peace, Rollerboy. We’ll never forget the hair!