A dear friend passed away last week.
I had not seen him for more than 20 years, since I left my home town to move to a distant time-zone. Two cryptic posts on Facebook alerted me to the possibility that something was wrong among a very old circle of friends, many of whom – like me – had moved on and had not seen one another for a long time.
It feels weird that it was through Facebook that many of us got the news and that through Facebook we chatted and cried together from different parts of the world, like time had not passed at all –
I had to make an effort to remember that now they are all middle aged, like me.
Our friend was an artist, a musician, a painter, a generous, wise and loving giant and most of us had sooner or later found with him a steady shoulder to cry on.
He took his own life, we don’t know why.
I find it very hard to accept or even conceive that he, of all people, could end with a definitive capitulation …and I hate, hate, hate the stereotype of the hunted artist, who finds peace only in death to which the press has immediately latched on, as an easy way to have all the answers without looking for them.