I have no relationship with him. I have never met, and now, never will. I would not have called myself a fan. And if you had asked me some of the people I would have loved to meet in my lifetime, he probably would not have been one of them.
Yesterday, I cried for him. From the minute he came on screen, my eyes welled with tears. My heart skipped a beat, failed to go back to the usual tempo, smashed wildly against my ribs. No one seemed to feel what i was feeling then. Even my movie date observed that my reaction was very visible upon seeing him.
I cried some more. The recurring image I have of him is masses of blond curly hair, disarming smile and forever pools of chocolate eyes. His work is brilliant, picking roles that portray fights and struggles against the public to rise beyond.
I thought about his last performance. The sheer brilliance and execution of talent unmatched and unrivalled. The ability to become another human being, step out of yourself to embrace and become a spirit so dark the night folds away in fear of it.
Be able to epitomise that in a way that surpasses people's understanding, and still be able to see you as the person that you are- shy, beautiful of soul and of face, talented and still so unpretentious.
I cried some more, when the credits rolled. The theatre hushed and i could feel my thoughts mingle with the rest of the audience. He's gone and that is what he left us with - an epically brilliant performance never to be duplicated or even equalled.
I went and added my signature to the petition to nominate Heath for an Oscar- because it would be just wrong if he didn't!
and a tribute to him:
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarre'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress'd,
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.
Today even here does not make me smile.