The Day A Great Writer Dies...

The day a great writer dies, is the day the English language loses a sound. A breath. A syllable. A consonant, perhaps? Or, perhaps - a vowel. One that's long and never ending. Slouching in laziness like a California girl. A vowel that lasts forever and draws you in, seductively. It leaves and now an empty space remains. What will be said then? What will words sounds like without that one particular sound, or breath, or syllable? What would the empty space contain besides the emptiness left after a great writer dies?
We all want to live forever.
We freeze our skin, work our muscles, eat well, sleep more, orgasm more, just so we can have a longer visit on planet earth.
We settle on 'longer' but we really all want to live forever. Never die - Never parish. And how do we do that? When our bodies collapse, and our voices break, and our hearts murmur... how do we live forever then? A stamp. All we need is a stamp. One that would travel long enough to live forever, to make our eternal entry to the book of fame. The book of the eternals. The book of the Joan Didions of the world, the actual superheroes. The human, breathing living people who have the courage to simply be themselves.
​Fully. Deeply. Eternally. Rest in peace, Ms. Didion.