I'm going to write this a couple hours early. Kurt Cobain meant a lot to me; his end came just a week after the beginning of mine. He was beautiful and pure, too pure for us. I understand why he did what he did, but I still wish he didn't. Physical pain isn't good for people at all. Some will say it adds character; I disagree. Pain kills feelings. When I had my root canal without number as a four-year-old kid, I learned that lesson. I didn't cry, and I didn't pass out from the pain. My looming memory of that procedure is the smell of ozone as the drill struggled to dig further into my face. People respond differently to extreme pain. My friend Nick just takes it. I complain, but secretly love the challenge. Kurt Cobain didn't deal with it well; his music says it better than I ever could.
Haul out all your old Nirvana records, and listen closely. That guy spawned imitators and admirers throughout the nineties. He's a bit of an old hat for kids today, but he was important to me. He remains important in my memories. He's simultaneously the best memory of my youth and my worst. His music helped shape me, and lead me away from his own folly. I never smoked, drank, or did any drugs: the delicate parts of my soul I wanted to keep wanted relief from knuckles, the lash, and the emerging demons in my head. Drugs would have kept those parts numb, but would destroy me in the end. I built a prison in black leather to keep everything separate and stable. I planned everything as well as I could, but still wound up with a gun in my mouth. Fate saved me for something later, maybe this.
I don't think I'll ever forget him. I would love to have called him brother here, but that never happened. Maybe I'll catch up with him later, but for now, I just hope he has some peace, love, and understanding wherever his pain calls home.