When I heard today that David Bowie had died I got out of bed and went into the kitchen. I boiled some water and looked at how peaceful it was outside and thought, like so many others before me, like any person who has experienced loss ever, why nothing had changed and how there could be no sign of him not being there anymore. I loved him. I loved whatever I knew of him. He was my friend who sang to me. He was my inspiration because he could be so many things. He was never boring, darting from one thing to another, a glittering, burning arc. I poured out the water and held the cup because it was warm and comforting. And I traced his name gently with the tip of my nail over and over again on the rim of the cup. Being a ‘fan’ – I think it’s such a disdainful term, isn’t it – is so hard. You have to mourn for people you never truly know. You never spoke to them, you never laughed with them. They are already phantoms.
You never knew them.
And it seems so strange, so unbelievable that a person you’re aware of almost all your life is unknown
Because you’re so close in your head
And then they are gone. Without knowing your name, without knowing that your heart beat and blood flowed through your body and whorls arranged themselves on your fingers while they stopped one day and left you.
It was a comfort just knowing that he was always there. Somewhere. And now he’s gone.
There are so many uncertainties. Are you supposed to feel so much, so deeply? Surely these feelings belong to people who really knew them, surely only they are the ones entitled to them.
How are you not here anymore? How do I find you after you’re gone, through all the pictures and articles and songs?
I thought we would meet one day.
It’s been a long time since I wrote anything. I’m sorry.
I thought he would live forever.