Upon meeting him, people walked away feeling one of two things; inspired or envious. It was a skill he’d first learnt he had on a school yard playground two decades prior when he talked himself out of a beating by threatening to summon his high-school brother on all those involved. It worked—despite the fact that he was an only child.
He grew into a slick man with bleach blonde hair that he gelled back so that it shone like plastic when standing beneath the dimmest of lights. He had a trove of ideas; each more fantastic than its preceding grand plan. Over the years he would imagine himself an art collector, a business tycoon, an inventor of necessities the world had yet to know it required, and at the heart of such proclamations lay the innate belief that he was in fact, a master of all these trades.
His relationships were short-lived too; for he was a man with little tolerance for criticism, and even less so for the desires of others that compelled him to compromise. His dress sense mirrored the charisma with which he carried himself; never seen wearing a suit that wasn’t blue. ‘Demand the attention you know you deserve,’ he’d say. And for a time, it worked. But soon enough, like the smell that precedes the black of burnt toast, people grew smarter in detecting his falsehood. When this happened, he simply moved elsewhere.
So it was that he found himself the apex of attention amidst lonely hearts across cities where his towering height, kind eyes, and the juxtaposed squareness of his jaw, were treated as anomalies of great mystery. He thrived on such absorption; using it as the fuel to generate new ideas oft reliant on the generosity of the acquaintances he called his friends.
Thus, his defining characteristic was that he believed. He spent the entirety of life convinced of his greatness, trusting that the aptitude of his whims could hardly amount to nothing. Perhaps such surety is what tainted his life with tragic hues. There could be no end but the one he endured; lacking both fanfare and familiarity. Because that’s the thing about dreams; no matter how fantastic they seem, they’re almost always forgotten.