what concerns me is that i've been finding my inspiration from artists who ended in such tragic demise. from hendrix to plath to joplin to pac, it's as if the roster of sages that i've compiled in the past half year are a glossary of suicides, assassinations, and overdoses. since december i've been reading this thick-ass anthology of sylvia plath's journals. i am positively horrified at how a writer can transform from an oblivious schoolgirl with high hopes on finding her soulmate, to yet another poet so confined within the walls of her scalp that she finds her escape through taking her life. the thing about journals is that, regardless of how in-depth or personal the writer may be, we as the readers are left wondering what occurred between entries--throughout the dates that were skipped, never documented, and lost in history with the individual. reading plath's personal confessions surely leave breadcrumb clues of what demons (external and internal) may have pushed her into her suicide, but i can only imagine how many thoughts may have been too painful to repeat on ink--or worse yet, how such a brilliant mind could have conjured worries that may not have found validation in its own judgement. how often do i have thoughts that i immediately brush away either under the assumption that it's not important enough to pay attention to? in the avid addiction that i've developed in the past year to reading and watching biographies, it appears that these little thoughts--inklings, petty concerns--are the mustard seeds that sprout into the monstrosities that ultimately consume our legends.

i relate to jimi in the fact that we share obliviousness. as smooth as he was on stage, he was rather awkward in his own skin. ill prepared for this world. in the end, it wasn't a climactic act of being strung out on heroin or acid where jimi met the end...it was clumsiness...one night accidentally taking too many sleeping pills unaware that those particular tablets were abnormally concentrated.

i mean, shit...when i was a kid i almost brushed my teeth with diaper rash cream. it's not hard to make those kinds of mistakes...

it's not so much the death that concerns me--death is but transition. rather, in learning the lives of these people, what sets my gut on a trip is the anguish leading to the death. so much paranoia. it seems almost a prerequisite for people to predict their deaths prior to demolition. i find myself lusting for the type of significance that jimi found, and eventually spent his last years trying to escape from. what is the sacrifice to becoming legendary? to create a legacy and father an entire artistic movement?

i've been musing on the fact that all the things that exhausted and depleted jimi into his death--nonstop touring, constant human interaction, prolific creativity, a high stake in the state of his artform--are exactly what i've been clawing for in the past year. the reason why, even in light of this, i find my drive untainted, is the fact that my breath of life comes from all of that. it's a fragile balance when you discover that the source of your existence can also lay the foundation for your obliteration.

of course, there are plenty of iconic artists who didn't end in tragic deaths (yenno, besides jimi hendrix, sylvia plath, janis joplin, tupac, john lennon, bruce lee, bob marley, kurt cobain, jim morrison, biggie smalls, jonathan larson, edgar allen poe, and marvin gaye). what is most disturbing, in all of these people who died generally young is the void of potential that will forever remains. i have found myself in countless conversations about what type of impact tupac would have if he were still alive today. certainly, there are a handful of greats who lived full, complete lives, or who are still alive today.

i once told an ex-girlfriend (while we were still together) that if we ever were to break up, i would want it to be by way of crashing and burning, in light of a conflict in fire and brimstone, rather than something as anti-climactic as fizzling out. probably not the most romantic thing to say, but regardless perhaps a representation of my larger scope of how i view life. not to say that i want anything tragic to have anything to do with me...not at all! yep, i'd absolutely prefer to live to be old and crusty. my deepest fear is to fall short of my potential. this means to run out of time before setting everything in place for my purpose to reach its realization, or coming to a dead end where i realize that my fumes have run out, even with a vast collective of ambitions still in my distant peripheral. if anything, let this be an incentive for me to harness every grain of what i've been blessed to represent, to keep having more to offer until my chest's last heave.

like dahlak says, it's best to always leave them wanting more.