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Michael Jackson is dead.

The shock of his death came to me as a shock. I just came home from a night out, and they played on the radio his 1982 Thriller album while I was driving back. Strangely enough, as someone who doesn’t listen to pop music, I was kind of enjoying listening to it.  But I was never into Michael Jackson music, gossip or anything. I had nothing to do with him.

Or so I thought.

When I came home, I read the news, after being hinted by a few blogs writing “1958-2009” and “RIP” – and I was stupefied. Michael Jackson died. But why did it bother me so? Like I said before, I never enjoyed his music and culture. But, looking back, he was always there. Ever since I can remember myself. His name, his presence, his photos and even his music. He was always part of my reality. He was the corporeal representation of an icon I never thought could die. I was, on those rare times I spent thinking of him, always considering him as a constant part of the world. It didn’t matter to me if he was active, performing, recording, raping kids or dying, as long as he was still there.

The shock of his death came to me as a shock. And it is that simple – something constant in life has changed. I don’t know why his death matters to me so. Perhaps it’s reminding me that things and people I actually care about could die and break my reality in the same way? Not the death of icons, but the death of close people. This is something to think about. But it’s too late to contemplate on that now.

So long Michael Jackson, though I never cared about ye.

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