I've been reading about him all day. Reading quotes and interviews. So many things that in the light (the darkness I suppose) of everything have become something else. Something entirely new. Saturated suddenly with all this aching meaning. An opened door. A closed door.
I tried to ignore the porridge oaty lump in my throat as I read a Twitter conversation he had had once.
"Thank you Robin Williams for making me laugh so fucking hard. I needed that." the man had said.
"I needed your tweet. Thank you!" he had replied.
Cried a quiet cry at my work desk.
Wiped tears from my face.
Ate an apple.
Thought about seeing Aladdin for the first time. Watching Mrs Doubtfire, Patch Adams. Jumanji.
I smiled for a second.
I remembered again.
He lived with a camera between him and the world, I thought. A world that was too much of everything (too little of everything? Constantly bubbling over. Boiling dry. Repeat.)
I tried not to think about the hours before but imagined him there in his home. Drinking a glass of water. Walking up the stairs. Being still. I thought about his eyes, his downwards mouth, his fingers scratching through his hair. I thought about his heart, a clenched fist punching red in his chest.
I thought about his insides. The loud, unending shout in his head.
I thought about his life before, by then just a distant echo, a quiet, low hum he could no longer hear above the scrambling noise.
