Cause of Death: Unknown
He was a sensitive soul. He was routinely forced to suppress the light in himself. The indigestion that resulted became unbearable.
He was a beautiful expression who never made it out of the birth canal. He could see the way forward, he could see dreams manifesting for others out there, but no matter how hard he struggled, he could not push through. For years he cried for the doctor’s hands to reach in and pull him free. They never came.
People failed to acknowledge or attend to this tragedy. There were far more critical tragedies at hand - there were cancers and social upheavals and ecological disasters way more interesting than the everyday dull, slow death of soul light. At first it was far less painful to just reject the truth: he was a stillbirth. Without hope or support, he failed to develop. He comforted himself in inner universes of the most ornate design. These innerverses held more beauty and appeal than anything a harsh surface world had to offer. Yet, he saw his designs as something more than self-solace. He saw a gift that could bring truth and joy to the outside. Maybe something that could make the cancers and upheavals easier to understand, easier to cope with. Maybe the gift could help ensure less future stillbirths.
Constant rejection of the facts eroded him to an end point. His expression had no use in an overcrowded time and place. The once evenly dispersed vanguard of truly unique thinkers across the ages had suddenly burst into a phalanx now at critical mass. They had gobbled up and regurgitated every minute detail of life, every hidden corner of abstract thought until the material was all gone. Erosion. There was no new material, only rehash. His gifts lost value. He visited the innerverses less and less. Someone had on the same shirt as he did. Resentment and doubt became the rules of the day. To go on perpetually unable to manifest dreams would only create pain for himself and others. The fetus would calcify. It would grow bitter and indifferent. Once this truth was accepted, he made the responsible decision to excuse himself from a hostile and insufferable environment, as quietly as possible.
As he went, the little universes went with him. As the world denied him, so he denied the world. Or so he thought? Secret being - he had fantasied that the blueprints and literature for these universes might possibly be discovered for future generations. He felt his work might achieve cult status posthumously. Once this current deluge of dreams and ideas (the overpopulation of artists, bands, films, writings), once this fad subsided, the wheat separated from the chaff, maybe his work could be reappraised. And the people might bemoan a former, ignorant generation that overlooked his talents and cast him aside for much shallower work that saturated the market. Perhaps without him even being alive to engineer, his past dreams could go on to liberate many. He dreamt his face on T-shirts. He dreamt of cover albums and post-mortem interviews where people hailed him as a genius and a prophet. Loved ones and contemporaries would come to laugh about his personality flaws and brush off his misdeeds in favor of accolade. They would muse on what the world might be like had he decided to stay in it. Had the right people cared and validated him.
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But then ... he also suspected himself to be, in truth, a complete hack. That nobody would ever unearth, revive or find any functional need for the things he'd dreamed up. Not even in the deepest underground by the heaviest outsiders. He never achieved success because his ideas were bad. He wasn't sensitive, he lacked balls. He was lazy. He was unoriginal. That's why nothing ever manifested for him. The image of the selfless martyr who poured lovelight into his dreams, attempting tragically to share them with a sleeping world was total self-delusion, invented to save himself from nightmarish self-realizations: he was an intensely selfish, self-involved, self-aggrandizing monster devoid of any compassion for humanity. And devoid of original thought, he manipulated any person who'd fall for his act, while resenting those who did not. He blamed them and every thing else but his own sloth and ineptitude for the meager lot he'd been given. And whatever real love did manage to seep out of him was conditional and subjective. He only ever really strived to better his own position, in attempt to live out some superficial fantasy, to cushion himself from the certainty of suffering, rather than facing pain and alleviating it for others. But, even in manipulation and navel-gazing, he was total MOR. These were the real things that halted his development, that kept him from his grails. Change now was an impossibility. In this lifetime at least. Maybe in the next he could come back and achieve maximum potential. But in this body and time, there was only one way out. He'd ruined himself - wound himself too tight in conditioning and neuroses and vice and shortcomings. End it. Spare yourself. Spare everyone around you. This is a fucking horror show.
No matter. He is gone now. He was another human being who came onto the scene, wasted some oxygen, wasted precious resources, bumped around a bunch of other wastrels with the same petty agendas, and then left just as cowardly as he came.