Posthumous

 


Time has told me,

You’re a rare, rare find,

A troubled cure,

For a troubled mind…

 

    Just saw an article about Nick Drake on Facebook this morning. Nick Drake was a folk singer-songwriter who made and released three albums when he was still in his early twenties during the ‘70s. All three albums reached miniscule audience and failed miserably, which depressed him furthermore and pushed him more toward drugs and insanity. Nick Drake had always been described as depressive and terribly shy who was always reluctant to perform in front of an audience, he was reportedly so shy that he refused to promote his songs.

    I discovered him years ago when I stumbled upon a video of “Pink Moon” (arguably his most famous song) online. Born in 1948, he died in 1974 of antidepressant overdose. Too young.

    Ironically, only years after his death that many people realized how brilliant (and gorgeously sad) his songs were, and he then started becoming famous. It's a tragedy that will remind you of what happened to Vincent van Gogh, who, while he was alive, was often called a failure and a madman. Painted a lot, only sold a single painting. People only started calling him a genius and started buying his paintings years after he committed suicide due to depression.

    I think that is one of the saddest things, if not the saddest thing... people liking you only after you died.

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