"Death twitches my ear; 'Live,' he says... 'I'm coming." - Virgil
Many of us have signatures, here; small, sometimes trivial, sometimes profound collections of words that trail our thoughts like a goodbye trails a final embrace. A few words to remember us by, perhaps - something to take away.
My signature speaks of death - Heidegger, to be precise. In it, he adjures us, just as Virgil does, to grasp what seemingly needn't be grasped; the basic, uncontroversial realization that life is in the living. Death is not tragic because of something that occurs, but because of what does not. The entire manifold of possibilities that is us closes in on itself, over.
Barring the kind of medical event that makes us call miracles "miracles," Shane Del Rosario became everything he will ever become today. No more kicks, or punches; no training, no fights and feuds.
A massive part of me wishes for something poetic to arise in that fact - some big, permanent truth that we all hear springs out of tragedy like a butterfly from a cocoon. Yet, there is no butterfly, here; just a wretched moth, embodied by the randomness of a young, and vibrant, and talented soul being snatched up.
So instead I will focus on the small truths, the little ones. If life is, after all, in the living, then who but the warriors squeeze more from it? Who here among us lives for as little; who here among us lives for as much? If the accounts of Shane Del Rosario's life were indeed settled today, then we shall all say his ledger was clear.
That is a small truth, you see; but the only important one.
I am certain others will eulogize Del Rosario's life better than I have here. Those who know him will speak in candid circles amongst themselves, and if we are lucky, we will steal a word or two meant for private ears. In respect, we should write a few words meant for public eyes.
Many of us have signatures, here; sometimes trivial, but none more profound than this:
RIP Shane Del Rosario.