Celebrity deaths rarely ever move me in a profound way. I acknowledge that a substantial part of humanity lost a meaningful influencer, but the questionable beauty of a depression-ridden mind is that not giving a single fuck becomes an all-encompassing reality.
It was a bit different with Carrie Fisher. Discovering the person behind the buns equalled discovering a mental health paragon that helped me (among many others) come to terms with my existence. Reading her newest book, The Princess Diarist, made this lopsided mental connection all the more personal, because that’s what the book is at its core: brutally personal. Going back over the pages knowing that the one who so diligently poured her heart into them is no more, makes the sting of her passing palpable even for me.
Princess Leia is not dead. Leia is fiction, a concept that will remain untouched by time for as long as it continues to lurk inside the brain of at least one human being.
But Carrie Fisher died. The one who lent Leia her face and thus, for good or ill, became inseparable from her for the rest of eternity.
But she was also just a person. Just Carrie.
Thank you, Miss Fisher. For being brutally, honestly you.