I stand at the crossing, waiting for the lights to change from green, to amber, to red.
Two women stand at the bus stop. A little further down the road from me, but on the same side. They stand in silence, but I know they are friends. Maybe it’s their similar styled rain jackets that give it away. It is not raining.
A man runs across the road near where the two women stand. He is wearing a white jacket, with a hood that stays up against all wind resistance. He is running from the local supermarket. All his items are in a bag, therfore I assume he did not steal. I should never assume. He runs past the bus stop and presumable home.
Cars race past me, hoping not to be caught out by the pending traffic light change. Each front seat passenger stares at me, and occasionally the driver – glad to be sitting inside.
The lights change from green, to amber, to red.
The argument between an ending friendship.
The corrupt route to success.
The determination for a lonely discovery.
The dissatisfied father, trying to show that his own dreams were the best.
We are nothing but a pale blue pixel in a black universe.
Yet everything is so significant.
I recently came across Kurt Cobain’s suicide note. When reading it, I realised how stand alone it was. It summarised and contained his strongest feelings, all because these were his last words. This brought me to reading as many celebrity suicide notes as I could. The last paragraphs are what I found the most interesting because they truly contain the last words.
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guity beyond words about these things.
For example when we’re back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can’t fool you, any one of you. It simply isn’t fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I’m having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it’s not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re gone. I’m too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I’ve had a much better appreciation for all the people I’ve known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can’t get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There’s good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don’t you just enjoy it? I don’t know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can’t stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I’ve become.
I have it good, very good, and I’m grateful, but since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don’t have the passion anymore, and so remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.
Frances and Courtney, I’ll be at your alter.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!
I’m so sorry—love, Elliott. God forgive me. – written on a post-it note.
Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.
I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.
Vincent Van Gogh
My dear brother,
Thanks for your kind letter and for the 50-fr. note in contained.
There are many things I should like to write you about, but I feel it useless. I hope you have found those worthy gentlemen favorably disposed toward you.
Your reassuring me as to the peacefulness of your household was hardly worth the trouble, I think, having seen the weal and woe of it for myself. And I quite agree with you that rearing a boy on a fourth floor is a hell of a job for you as well as for Jo.
Since the thing that matters most is going well, why should I say more about things of less importance? My word, before we have a chance to talk business more collectedly, we shall probably have a long way to go.
The other painters, whatever they think, instinctively keep themselves at a distance from discussions about the actual trade.
Well, the truth is, we can only make our pictures speak. But yet, my dear brother, there is this that I have always told you, and I repeat it once more with all the earnestness that can be expressed by the effort of a mind diligently fixed on trying to do as well as possible – I tell you again that I shall always consider you to be something more than a simple dealer in Corots, that through my mediation you have your part in the actual production of some canvases, which will retain their calm even in the catastrophe.
For this is what we have got to, and this is all or at least the main thing I can have to tell you at a moment of comparative crisis. At a moment when things are very strained between dealers in pictures of dead artists, and living artists.
Well, my own work, I am risking my life for it and my reason has half foundered because of it–that’s all right–but you are not among the dealers in men as far as I know, and you can still choose your side, I think, acting with humanity, but que veux-tu?
At a young age I decided that my lucky number was 7 – for no reason. Yet something about the number 7 has stuck with me to this day.
A ladybug commonly has 7 spots.
Most mammals have 7 bones in their neck.
There are only 7 stellar bodies that we can see with the naked eye – the Sun, the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn.
20p and 50p both have 7 sides.
7-up is named after Lithium, an ingrediant that has a molecular mass of 7 a.m.u
Today, my table number at the cafe was 7.
It wasn’t the day I knew I wanted to become a scientist, but the day I became a scientist. The teacher of our primary 6 class was explaining that the speed of light was extremely fast. To demonstrate, she walked over to the light switch and turned off the unnecessary classroom bulbs.
“Now watch how quickly the light comes back on when I hit the switch.”
The room instantly became that bit brighter. I raised my hand and she looked over.
“That’s not really the speed of the light. It’s also the speed of electricity.”