Sinead, why did we forget to love you until you died?

In the wake of Sinead O'Connor's death, tributes are flying through. But as Amanda Palmer, Morrisey and Kris Kristofferson point out, it is too late.

This summation of Sinead O'Connor and her death by Amanda Palmer is utterly on point. As is the perfectly tensioned rage of Morrisey.

Our culture is so strange.

We want to be challenged. We adore the idea of the individual. But we eviscerate those that stand up for us. We demand perfection from the messaging. And we slaughter them with normal.

We want to explore the depths through music, writing and art. Yet we shame the occupations, deny their impact, and question them endlessly.

We want people to be different, creative, eclectic. But we make it financially, emotionally and socially difficult to be so. And we punish them for this insight and difference, not because it's incorrect but because it's often too inconvenient a truth to hear.

We mourn them once they die, especially when mental health is involved. Yet we never stop to think about their trauma, their experiences, how actions are symptoms of deep, resounding pain. Or how we intensify and minimise that pain at the exact same time in every ignorant comment, unrelenting standard, judgemental aside, and hand-wringing silence.

In 1992, during a Bob Dylan anniversary concert, Sinéad O'Connor faced a difficult moment as she was booed off the stage. However, Kris Kristofferson came to her aid, offering comfort and support. Inspired by their encounter, he later composed a heartfelt tribute dedicated to her.

I leave it with you as a reminder that your words matter.

"I'm singing this song for my sister Sinead

Concerning the god awful mess that she made

When she told them her truth just as hard as she could

Her message profoundly was misunderstood

There's humans entrusted with guarding our gold

And humans in charge of the saving of souls

And humans responded all over the world

Condemning that bald headed brave little girl

And maybe she's crazy and maybe she ain't

But so was Picasso and so were the saints

And she's never been partial to shackles or chains

She's too old for breaking and too young to tame

It's askin' for trouble to stick out your neck

In terms of a target a big silhouette

But some candles flicker and some candles fade

And some burn as true as my sister Sinead

And maybe she's crazy and maybe she ain't

But so was Picasso and so were the saints

And she's never been partial to shackles or chains

She's too old for breaking and too young to tame”

And one final thought: Sinead, why did we forget to love you until you died?