I like to imagine Heaven being full of composite images created by living imagination. Perfect art exists in Heaven, and they are all born from flesh. It's really selfish that they get to experience perfect art. Perhaps it's a well deserved award for the dead who make it past the gate. It must be why they have no time for us. I doubt they remember where their culture comes from, and frankly I don't care if they do. I just hope my friends are enjoying the things I make for them. It's good they don't see how I live.

This Christmas, I for some reason thought a lot about a friend of mine that committed suicide this year. I thought about how much people did not want to admit what he did. They looked for all reasons to prove otherwise, but it was so obvious. Yet at the same time it was so strange. His life was kind of perfect. At least by my standards. Surrounded by good people, intelligent, creatively gifted. And it's not like he was poor or had no future for himself. He wasn't wealthy either. Just kind of perfect. Like a gem covered in dirt.

I envied his drive while I was so doubtful and neglectful of my own pursuits. He had so much work he never showed anyone. Writings, drawings, some paintings, full on comics. Being so skilled while learning Japanese, going to college, and having to deal with the same bullshit I and many other dorky introverted creative otaku types need to go through. I thought about how he would go to me for advice on how to garner motivation, how to finish projects, and how to write things he is satisfied with. He knew I had those same problems. He knew I handled them pretty well for how low level my skills were back then. But I was so fed up with everything I was doing. I was miserable, depressed, alienated. I had no idea why the hell he was going to me of all people when there were two other guys who were more mature and more skilled than I was. I didn't believe I had any advice worth giving, so I gave him generic answers sometimes. He was way too kind. That might have been his only flaw. I wish he called me retarded. Call me naïve, call me an asshole. He was way too nice to people.

When he died, I for some reason didn't feel bad. Sure I had friends commit suicide before, but it's not like that makes this instance any less profound. But I took the time to think about it and I think I have a decent enough answer.

For the other instances, the news of their death did not reach me and their other peers until several months after. They had been dead for months, and none of their friends had any idea. When we did receive the news, sure it was sad but, it was kind of treated as something that just happens. As if a friend had ended a long-term relationship and he was all beat up about it. It just wasn't really important. After all, they were kind of an asshole. They crossed peoples boundaries, would grief games and ruin other peoples experiences, was pretty racist and misogynistic. They gave off a lot of weird vibes. In retrospect, nobody really liked them. Neither did I. They were just kind of there. I never really thought about them afterwards and neither did anyone else. They were forgotten, which they maybe deserved. Yet despite that, their death makes me sad. To just be forgotten. The thought of that is terrifying to me. To live a life from start to finish and leave nothing for other people that is worth remembering. Their death is so much more tragic to me, which should not be the case. I know that shouldn't be the case. But I can't control how I feel about the situation.

With my friend from this year, he was surrounded by good people. A ton of good people. His friends all made an entire discord server dedicated to his life, and it was fucking packed. When I received news there would be a discord memorial server I kind of expected there to be maybe 20 members. There is over 60. They all knew him. They all had things to share. One of them was a pretty famous guy that ended up talking about him publicly. My friend looked up to that guy and his works. He always wanted to show him the stuff he made. He died before he could. The famous guy loved what he saw when I eventually showed it to him, and we eventually saw fragments of my friends work in the things the famous guy would make soon after. He is remembered by so many people, including one of his idols.

He died young. Not much older than me. He died before he could do anything truly profound. He died before he could be recognized for how talented he actually was. I know it's common for people to exaggerate the skills of their peers who have passed. But I really mean it when I say this guy was very smart and skilled at what he did. I am not someone who describes people like that lightly. I am very critical of others.

But despite all of that, he is remembered by so many good people. I did not feel sad. I was more relieved. As short as his life was, as tragic as his end was, he did so many things that mattered. I'm incredibly happy for him.

I remember a conversation I had with him in a voice chat one day. We were talking about how our physical works never match what we intended to make. I had the same fears. We talked about how imagination is perfect, but our hands aren't. And because of that we can never be satisfied with what we make. I told him I often don't make things because I don't want to ruin the perfect composite image. He agreed with me. We had the same creative struggles. The same anxieties. The same self-hatred.

I came to the conclusion this Christmas that those composite images in our imaginations get sent to Heaven. I don't believe in Heaven. But if there is one, he definitely went there. If he is there, I hope he's enjoying the things I and his friends are making for him. And if not, then I at least will continue to see his fingerprints on the works of his friends.