I am in tears. Because Robin Williams is dead. And I hate it.
I try to be cynical and detached about death. I consider, that is the way of this anthropocentric TV show called Life. Characters are killed off. Replacements are hired. Sometimes the actors want too much out of this show. Sometimes they're just bad at it and get fired. And for the most part, I succeed at not beating myself up over the characters who had a good run. It's the ones who don't get a fair shot that are the true tragedies, not those who decide to spoil theirs or those who decide to quit after a successful stint. But then, there are characters whom we truly love. Funny, thoughtful, and brilliant individuals, whom we dread to lose, no matter how long they've been around.
I don't want him to be gone. I don't want to believe it. I want this to be a joke.
But just as I am selfishly writing about how this affects me rather than how it impacts the man who died and the people he loved, I will eventually—inevitably—come to terms with this and reflect on the life and works of a genius. Right now, I can only feel empty and mourn and wish it wasn't so and regret what could have been and cry.
But I can also come to understand, so many words later, why I feel the compulsion to write this. The truth is, only a special person would affect me in this way.
Robin played the profound role in my life of teaching me it was okay to be crazy. In this space, I can only thank him for that, and hope that he rests in peace.