I stayed up late last night, long after I made my Robin Williams epitaph blog entry. I was grappling with the strange mixture of emotions I was feeling about the suicide of a man I never met. I couldn’t grasp what about his death had me so upset and bothered.
I finally burrowed beneath my comforter approaching midnight. The heavy rain that had pummeled my part of the mitten state had finally abated. The air had cooled and the martyred August heat had given way to an autumn like night. I was shivering a little with the windows open, still struggling against emotions that seemed too potent for the circumstances.
The epiphany was swift and my shivering stopped as I realized the profound impact of Robin Williams’s death on my conscience.
His death is a tragedy. It pained me to think that this man who contained so much mirth, and gave so much joy to millions upon millions was secretly suffering. Maybe it wasn’t so much of a secret to those around him, but depression is a dark demented thing that tortures unceasingly.
A heavy sadness covers me, like my incompetent comforter, when I think of this dynamic, wonderful man’s last days and moments. What demons plagued such a brilliant man that he took his own life?
One of cinemas greatest comics suffered such horrible pain and anguish. There is the tragedy. So many of us were touched by a tragic, comedic genius. There lies the anchoring knot of my emotional turmoil.
I’ll miss you Mr. Robin Williams….and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, our dear, tragic jester.