No death is easy.
Let me rephrase that: no death is easy for the people still alive. Death for the dead is pretty easy.
Well, let me rephrase that again: no death of a non-villainous person is easy for the people still alive. Terrorists, murderers, rapists... I think we all pretty much concur those ignoble turds deserve whatever they get. (Bet I’m the first one in mankind’s history to use the phrase “ignoble turds.” Feels pretty good to make history.)
Most difficult of all, though, are early deaths. You know, the people who “died too soon.” (Which is an odd expression if you think about it. I mean, I get what people are saying when they refer to someone dying too early. It’s a shame the person died at an age when most of us are leading our first piano recital, or dissecting our first frog, or getting dumped for the first [or nineteenth] time, or enjoying our first “real world” job offer, or playing our first old-man softball game with our wife chasing the kids down through the bleachers. I understand there’s an average life expectancy floating around out there, but couldn’t every death be considered too early? A 98-year old woman who gets run over while crossing the street with her bag of groceries in essence died too early. Because there’s this vague, unwritten human rights rule we all seemingly, inherently agree upon that if you don’t die in your sleep naturally at a wrinkly age, then you’ve simply died too soon. Same deal if you die before you ever get a chance to cash in on that hard-earned college degree. Or a chance to seize that “American Dream” [which I presume is a family with perfectly parted hair, a job where you have dainty minions to fetch your daily coffee, and all the desired tangibles that, when prematurely acquired, primarily under social scrutiny, result in debt oozing out of your every pore].)
But I digress. Early deaths are tough. They’re shocking, they’re unexpected, they’re extraordinarily inconvenient. They force everyone to stop momentarily and say, “What just happened?” while the ones from “natural” causes are often shrugged away with, “Well, they’re gone. It was time anyway.”
The advantage of dying early is that you never get a chance to wear out your welcome. In fact, you immediately garner an air of mystery about you -- this certain significance incomparable to any living humans -- regarding all the potential you had, all the wonderful things you could have done. (Meanwhile, the person who lives and actually does those things is often overlooked and rarely receives the due recognition.) Take for example any number of famous “early” exiters: Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Buddy Holly, John F. Kennedy, Janis Joplin, River Phoenix, Aailyah, Heath Ledger, Tupac Shakur, James Dean, Ray Combs (yeah, that’s right, Ray Combs -- and don’t you dare suggest this “Family Feud” host doesn’t deserve a spot on a list of all-time too-young-to-die notables) -- the accomplishments, versatility, and wit of these people are undeniably magnified because they died in their heyday -- which really means they died before they exhausted their talent and became boring and washed-up.
The disadvantage here of course is you’re not alive to enjoy the praise that emanated from your death. I’m one of those crazy people who have the gall to believe in a literal afterlife, where the everlasting route taken is directly correlated to previous decisions. But whether you agree with that or simply believe life ends with cold, damp darkness in pure tranquility, the fact remains that you’re gone -- and quite honestly, seeing as how you’re dead, you probably don’t care what’s happening in that oxygen-and-dirt bubble you formerly knew. I mean, your soul is busy doing other things -- in my personal belief either partying with your Creator or ...elsewhere with regrets -- and I’ve a hunch that the worldly acclimation you’re receiving in the meantime couldn’t be farther back on your backburners of concern.
...Man, just think of how momentous this take would be if I died early...
