Fears are clearly our common lot.
How I feared the quiet, eternal darkness. Similarly, but in a more darting and perverted sense, you feared even the most momentary lapse in relevance.
What initially looked and felt like tribute was slowly unmasked, layer by layer, to reveal an army of ugly little sneering faces. These demons of greed I met with anger, then sadness.
I spent an entire lifetime filling with memories the chest you so eagerly and carelessly rummaged through. With each torn memory ostensibly sold in my honor, I felt increasingly prostituted.
Creating, I always believed, was the purest human act, and the last hope to live forever. So I wrote and sang and filmed and performed constantly, but with the painstaking care that is the very essence of love, a level of care you failed to exercise.
Your compilation of my ten best moments could be chalked up to adulation, but my wheels no longer spin and I am no longer in need of the grease that is flattery. When you published six facts about me unknown to readers, and followed that with unearthed letters to former lovers, you could say my suspicions about your intent were triggered.
“Topical,” that’s what you called me in the Friday morning staff meeting. Topical is why my life has been on a constant loop the past eight days. Topical has an expiration date, the persistent monster I thought perhaps I’d succeeded in outrunning.
I am neither unfamiliar nor unacquainted with the dominant, if not suppressed, ideology that in our world there is neither honor nor justice, that in our world one must be cunning and wicked. I don’t blame you for stooping to survive, but I’m tired.
Please, friend, at least for the night, leave me alone to be comforted by the quietness I once feared.