His weirdness was magic, not an alienating kind of oddity, but a deep and profound originality that encompassed and welcomed all. He was a paradox of strangeness and familiarity- an anomaly that took culture by the balls, rejecting it and redefining it. Confident as a war-lord, he invaded pop and all we could do was bow.
He once told Charlie Rose that art was lunacy; that to create was superfluous to man’s survival. Yet everything he was, and forever will be, worships the needless, the profuse, asserting value to the things most deem worthless or abnormal.
And in those things is where he lives- the things that make us more than just human. The intangible essence of Bowie will never die, because it’s part of us. Nothing can touch that. No cancer can consume it. The starman was here for a brief moment and he blew our fucking minds, and we will miss him greatly.
