Today is a sad day. It is the sixth anniversary of the death of Johnny Cash, and the first of David Foster Wallace. Both were born in February, five days apart from each others birthdays, and died exactly five years from each other, on September twelve. It is hard to describe the sadness I feel. I admire their honesty and courage, and can connect to their stories more than most dead poets because they sang to my time. I wasn't fortunate enough to see them in person, and even in their television appearances they are not near at hand, as if they are pieces of God who fell and had to attach themselves back together, after much effort, only to let us behold them with full knowledge that we will soon have to drop them. Each carried with him darker qualities that I'm too young to acknowledge properly, but each still developed a humanness that is reachable, a humanness that is missing greatly in our time. I was not even lucky enough to call them my heroes when they were living, so their deaths were nothing but a headline. They have yet to weigh on me. I got a glimpse of their end but I wasn't there for their journey. I missed them by this---much. Imagine seeing the last traces of someone great because you found out about them too late. But I am beginning to discover their voice and personality through their words and works. And as little as I know about them, I am happy that they chose to live and create compassionately.
So, as a gesture of the most grateful kind of human love, this day will not pass without this little man praising these two giants, for the suffering they went through on this earth, and for the mercy they showed in their lives. I know this is a small offering and in no way is it sufficient, next year I will give a more indebted tribute. For now, I will simply remain in awe of them, and slowly walk forth on the trail they have left behind. There is much fruit to gather on the trail, and they supply a wealth of nutrients, I'm just sad that they are not here with us to pick them.
It is a hard time in the world, but I cannot be depressed for long. Too much is at stake. I cannot be shy for long, there is no victory in that. Being hurt is not a powerful enough excuse to quit, or not to begin. Call it a historical impulse, a self-conscious plea to eternity, or a boy's desperate attempt, but I must write these words, and any reason is justified; for the world, for the future, for the past, or for my own soul's record, to be played by me and me alone. I am hurt, that is why I write, and any other reason I give is a lie.
Final Words
