I testify that my childhood could play on a looped soundtrack sung by MJ.
I testify to starting my mornings to MJ, to ending my evenings with MJ, to being 13 to MJ, to being 33 to MJ, to blasting his music in my car and through headphones in my ears, all the while believing that hearing loss was a minor price to pay.
I testify to thinking that maybe too much talent, too much early stardom on the shoulders of a sensitive soul, too much unearthly charisma for one human body to process, just might screw with cerebral synapses, just might re-calibrate the faculties we count on for normalcy and a decent grasp on mental health, and just might result in an onset of bizarre behavior later on in life.
I testify that my computer, my iPod, my tape collection all swaddled in dust and adolescent love, and the countless mixes and burned CDs account for one thing: his music might as well form a ring around the Earth, like the rings that circumscribe Saturn, because it'll be there, until the Earth isn't, embedded in the ether, in our ears, and in our respective groove thangs, when we shake them drunkenly as wedding receptions, completely sober in the mirror, or hum along nonchalantly as we walk down the street.
RIP
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