A colleague has passed away. Our contemporaries said someone should write something about it; about him. I didn’t actually like him. We had only one interaction and it wasn’t pleasant. By no means am I glad he’s gone; far from it.

But I don’t mourn him. I don‘t have anything negative to say about him but I can’t say anything nice, either.

He was forty-five years old. He leaves behind an autistic son. He was a filmmaker, a musician, a scholar, and a windbag. He could go on for pages and pages about his passions. As a passionate person he was a firecracker and was quick to temper. He could be difficult. He loved his son, advocated for the autistic community, and supported fellow filmmakers. By all accounts and tributes, he was a good dude.

He killed himself.

I have a strange relationship with suicide: I see it as an unforgivable act; selfish and cruel, immeasurably misguided and worthy of all the derision it invites. At the same time, I find it completely understandable and I’m constantly surprised more people aren’t doing it.

I didn’t particularly like him when he was alive, but now that he’s gone… I hate him. Not for the arrogance or anger he showed while he walked this world; A person alive is always in a position to be better. No, I hate the arrogance and anger that killed him, that guided him to kill himself. Now he can’t be better. Now he can’t prove me wrong, be the better man, show me to be the asshole as he moves through time improving the lives he touches while I bitterly writhe in jealousy.

No, we can’t change our relationship now. He’s gone and I’m here with my anger and unpleasant memories. Why? Why am I still here?

I was in awe of his productivity. I honestly didn’t think his work was particularly good but there was a lot of it. I was jealous that he could push himself to make so much content when I would go days without showering or eating; when the only thing I could care about was having another drink, actively working towards finding the one that would bury me. I was so jealous.

I once reached out to him to ask if he’d give some editing feedback for something I’d written. He never replied. I took it as a snub.

But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe what I saw was the tip of his iceberg, and his voluminous works that plagued me so were but a fraction of his heart’s intent. That he, too, found himself frequently arrested by doubt and jealousy.

But I’ll never know. Because he’s gone and I’m still here. I’m still writing, and I’m still walking this earth.

I don’t know his particular “why” but I can understand it. I can’t forgive it, however. I understand wanting to go, but we just can’t. It’s just not what good people do.

As I reflect upon him with judgement and disapproval, I know unequivocally that I am not a good person. But I’m still here, so I can still be better.