Last words about Linkin Park and death of Chester Bennington


Enough has been said. Enough have been cried. Enough has been thought through. When I decided to write this note I wasn’t afraid to be blamed as fake or pathetic. My only goal was to justify my own sadness and grief. Enough to be hyped and argued. It’s always hard when meaningful things from your present become your past. When Chester Bennington died, I suddenly realised that a considerable part of me died too. Justifying your own sorrow and reflection helps to overcome things but speaking about the topic is better. When he died, I felt so alone. Like a tidal wave of time which breaks in front of you taking gravel and sand into depths and you will never know when it will take you.

Death of Chester Bennington

It’s getting dark early in August. I’m a boy of 14, laying in my bed with a tape player in my hands listening to “Hybrid Theory”. Later I received “Meteora” as a gift when my father finally realised that it’s almost impossible to argue with me. Linkin Park was the very first metal band I’ve ever heard. I might say, they opened the gates of metal in front of me with their songs. This times when you understood that your father’s music is not the only one listenable in this world. And even more, when you finally proved it to him by your own adherence to that music.

I’ve listened to all their albums and always watched all live shows I was able to find on the internet. “Hybrid Theory” and “Meteora” were their best albums and as years passed by, I’ve regularly returned to them. Nevertheless, I never was a fan of the nu metal. Chester Bennington showed me another side of music with his vocals and guitar riffs, and I’m grateful for that.

When he died, I felt that these gates closed behind my back and now I’m all alone. I’ve always listened to Linkin Park in my time of need. I knew that Chester with such a big problems with various addictions and childhood traumas can write really good songs. That he can express himself and live with it. His anger helped me to fight my own demons… And now I’m alone.

I’m 30 years old and I cried like a baby all the night with a little help of my panic disorder of course, which has grown even bigger. I don’t want to read my common news feeds because I don’t want to read more about it. I don’t want to see people arguing and trolling and hyping. It’s always hard and sad when somebody meaningful dies. But dead should stay dead: there’s no need to take them out of their coffins and dance on their bones.

That’s all.

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