Since today is Kurt Cobain’s birthday-he’d be 45-I suppose I’m sort of obligated to write something about him. To commemorate his life, pay homage to his talent, something like that, I don’t know.
I don’t really know what to say, though. He had something to say that people wanted to hear, but it was hard for him to deal with all of the people who wanted that piece of him. It’s common knowledge that he believed both that he was a genius and a colossal fuckup. He had a brilliant mind that was capable of creating beautiful art, but it ultimately destroyed him. I can relate to that, and I’m hardly the only one.
He had a life that most people would have killed for, and he didn’t think he deserved it.
Today isn’t a good day for me to write about this. Like Kurt, I’ve dealt with depression my whole life, and today it’s devouring the hell out of my brain. I just want to sleep. I’m fortunate to be able to hide from the world when I get like this, to have a partner who understands and lets me live in silence as long as I need to. I will not let the depression get me like it did Kurt-it almost did once, but that’s a blog for a different day, when I’ve gotten to know you better-but I get that it’s a hard thing to fight. Depression is like cancer: sometimes you can beat it, and sometimes no matter what you do, it kills you. I got lucky. Kurt didn’t, and I wish I could believe that he was out there somewhere, feeling whole and happy, painting pictures of fetuses in the shadow of some benevolent god. At least he isn’t hurting anymore.