"Good night my angel, sleep well. Papa and Mama love you very much." So murmured with tears the father of Amy Winehouse, to the lifeless body of his daughter. He must have said those words countless times to his little girl, parting her hair away from her temples, planting a kiss on her forehead, on her then warm skin, while tugging her snugly under the soft fleecy blanket on the cosy bed. That comforting ritual would have been repeated night after night to safeguard her from bad dreams.
But she grew up and the nightmares came on one unexpected point, enveloping her in heavy black clouds of dubious and false reality, and she got lost.
Behind steel and concrete, façades of conviction and complacence, deep down we remain children seeking a reassuring hand to grasp us, a smile of an accomplice to indulge us, or a warning in time when we are on the point of straying into the wrong path; no matter how much is in our bulging bank account, how beautiful, popular and safe we feel. We are born fragile, and die the same fragile being. The riches, the power, the security we had constructed crumble and vanish. We can take nothing of that in the transit.
At the end, all that matters is that we have loved and have been loved. The emotion and the thought that although we have been defeated by demons, for someone, at some moment, we were an angel.
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