Ten years flies by. I cannot believe it's the 10th anniversary of the death of Hunter Thompson. I attempted to write something in 2005 about what the tragic news meant to me at the time.
Even though I have ten years behind me... I'm still at a loss for words. In 2005 I was mostly overcome by shock, whereas today, I'm overcome by sadness.
When the words flow easy, writing is the best drug in the world. When the words are not, writing becomes an excruciating and humiliating task... sort of like having constipation, finally ripping a fart, then shitting yourself.
Suicide is a prickly topic. There's zero heroism in the deed... but the older I get, the more I can understand the "why"... because when you're that troubled and drowning in your own misery, you have a clouded perspective, so death is the most plausible option.
The photo above inspires me.
In 1961, Hunter Thompson lived in Big Sur, CA. Hell of a writing space if you ask me. If I didn't tell you the guy in the pic was Hunter, then it could have been some other writer... maybe one of the beats. Doesn't really matter, because the image represents commitment. But I also know it's Hunter and he's working on his craft and perfecting the voice that we've become accustomed to reading. On the surface, this photo tells you that all you need is a typewriter, pot of coffee, a pipe, and something to say... because in that scene, it seems like the words will flow gracefully.
Every time I see this picture, I also tell myself: "You only have a short time here... on Earth... in life. Say what you gotta say before it's too late."
Ten years later... I'm still at a loss for words. RIP Hunter.
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