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Dear James,
Astyn
Dear James,
I’m writing this letter not necessarily for you, but for me. I’m too much of a skeptic to believe that you’re lounging around with wings, sitting on a cloud watching over us as we carry out our meager lives without you. I do, however, believe that you’re something, somewhere.
When I first heard about you’re death it was in my high school cafeteria and I was eating lunch with my friends. Joe, a once very close friend of mine, approached me and told me that you had died. It wasn’t as dramatic as some other stories, he didn’t have tears in his eyes and he wasn’t screaming ‘THE REV’S DEAD!’ like it was the Kennedy assassination- he actually looked very angry.
I’ll never forget the look on his face, his blue eyes blazed and his thin lips were curled into something resembling a scowl.
“James Sullivan died.” He nearly spat, and I could only stare at him. “And they didn’t even put it on the fuckin’ news. The fucking Rev is dead and they didn’t even have it on TV. I fuckin’ hate Texas, they’ve got no respect.”
I didn’t cry for you until three months after your death. I didn’t like the idea of balling over a celebrity, but I eventually broke down while I was listening to A Little Piece of Heaven, because I just thought of you and remembered you were gone. I was in some sort of strange denial, refusing to believe that you were dead until the very last second.
You’re our generation’s Kurt Cobain, so to speak. We’re all hurting over you because you were something more to us, much more than a silly celebrity basking in the spotlight of our affections. You were someone to look up to, you were someone to give us laughs. I’ll miss you. I do miss you.
You’ll always be in my heart.
Sincerely yours,
Astyn
I’m writing this letter not necessarily for you, but for me. I’m too much of a skeptic to believe that you’re lounging around with wings, sitting on a cloud watching over us as we carry out our meager lives without you. I do, however, believe that you’re something, somewhere.
When I first heard about you’re death it was in my high school cafeteria and I was eating lunch with my friends. Joe, a once very close friend of mine, approached me and told me that you had died. It wasn’t as dramatic as some other stories, he didn’t have tears in his eyes and he wasn’t screaming ‘THE REV’S DEAD!’ like it was the Kennedy assassination- he actually looked very angry.
I’ll never forget the look on his face, his blue eyes blazed and his thin lips were curled into something resembling a scowl.
“James Sullivan died.” He nearly spat, and I could only stare at him. “And they didn’t even put it on the fuckin’ news. The fucking Rev is dead and they didn’t even have it on TV. I fuckin’ hate Texas, they’ve got no respect.”
I didn’t cry for you until three months after your death. I didn’t like the idea of balling over a celebrity, but I eventually broke down while I was listening to A Little Piece of Heaven, because I just thought of you and remembered you were gone. I was in some sort of strange denial, refusing to believe that you were dead until the very last second.
You’re our generation’s Kurt Cobain, so to speak. We’re all hurting over you because you were something more to us, much more than a silly celebrity basking in the spotlight of our affections. You were someone to look up to, you were someone to give us laughs. I’ll miss you. I do miss you.
You’ll always be in my heart.
Sincerely yours,
Astyn
♠ ♠ ♠
Astyn