Maybe I was destined to forever fall in love with people I couldn’t have. Maybe there’s a whole assortment of impossible people waiting for me to find them. Waiting to make me feel the same impossibility over and over again.
Dear Robin Williams,
I just want to get my thoughts down before I lose interest or they culminate into something meaningless. I don’t know anything about you. Most of your fans knew nothing about your life behind the scenes. Which is likely to change now that everyone’s incessantly googling your name.
I don’t have a meaningful story relating to one of your movies and how it resonated with me to the point of influence. Flubber, Jack, Death to Smoochy, and Jumanji were awesome films growing up, but they didn’t make me who I am today. They didn’t make me want to be a comic and I certainly don’t tell jokes anywhere near the strength, or with the mannerisms you had.
I do however know what it’s like to live with depression and to use your talents (or what ever you want to call them) to make the best of it. I’m sick and fucking tired of seeing writers, comics, and actors succumb to their disease. We’re dropping like flies because of it and no one seems to really understand why. Comedy in particular lends itself to it more than anything.
Depression has this stigma that forces most people to think it’s limited to the introverted misanthrope, keeping to himself at parties. It’s a disease, and it’s not very biased. I don’t have a solution. And honestly, I have no idea how to even go about trying to make one. But I do know this: when I go on stage, I want to be a tenth as funny as you were. You did things in your own way and that’s exactly what I want to do. I shouldn’t care, and I’m sure I won’t by this time next week. But at this very moment, I’m really not okay with the fact that you’re gone. I miss you without having ever met you. I love you without having ever gotten the chance to know you. And I think that’s something worth remembering.