"The Good life is
not a place you arrive at. It is a lens you bring to the place you are at right
now"
Just yesterday I wore an Alexander McQueen backless dress and felt beautiful in
what was a most ingeniously created work of art. In its construction and
conception. Must take a beautiful mind to have conjured this I wondered, and
then my mind began to ask what made this acclaimed creative genius said to be
worth twenty million pounds, commit suicide at 45 at his stunning two million pound flat in Mayfair, central
London? He was doing work he liked, achieved recognition, success, money, fame,
adulation and was one of the greatest creative geniuses of our times. Not
enough reason to endure living? Are there further barriers to the elusive state
called happiness?
One hint perhaps, was, critics opined, an obsession with the
'Afterlife' that came across in his work. Did he see the pot of gold at the end
of the rainbow, on the other side from life? Perhaps!
The ostensible reason was that the fashion designer – high on
cocaine- slashed his wrists with a ceremonial dagger on the eve of mum Joyce's
funeral was the grief of her parting.
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