Eulogy

  Steve never seemed "all there". That's not to say he wasn't smart, but his friends recalled countless times when they would be having a conversation, and his response to what they said would be a simple "yeah" or "interesting", as his eyes starred through their faces, seemingly into another dimension. Steve preferred to stay inside of his own head. Most of the things that came out of his mouth would be jokes, or utterly random questions about existentialism. These jokes and questions would always be strange and off the wall, garnering stares and strange glances from all but a few people he told them to.

 Steve didn't feel disliked or hated by his peers, he just felt misunderstood.Not in the way that most teenagers do, but more in the way people who speak alien languages feel misunderstood. Adults who knew him would always say that  "he was an old soul", as if he had been "reincarnated in some way" . What his friends said on the subject was that "he's the type of guy to write a really pretentious Eulogy for himself, and make it all about his complexities." 

 I know if he was still here, he would've wished he had got out more. He spent most of his time either at school, on his bike, or at home. He spent time thinking. He was always thinking. I know this sounds obvious, because everybody is always thinking, if you think about it. But Steve's thoughts rarely had to do with the outside world. Anybody who knew him would tell you that he had trouble speaking when he was really "in it." You could put him in a white room, and he would be able to occupy himself for a good several days.

There was a time when he wasn't like this, though. Between the ages of 8 and 15, the only thing that Steve talked about or seemed to think about was basketball. He loved every aspect of the sport. He loved discussing it, he loved reading about it, he loved watching it, but most of all, he loved playing it. At age 15, it became apparent that Steve was not talented enough to play basketball, at least not for his school. Apparent to everyone, that is, but Steve. 

He tried out for the sophomore team, and was cut. He was crushed. Out of sheer pity, the coach kept him as the layer who kept the bench the warmest. This was when Steve changed. This gave Steve time to think. He rode that bench like a pro occupying himself only with his thoughts. He spent that time contemplating life, why we were here, or why we do the things we hate, like sit on benches. He spent all this time thinking. In that time, his grades started to slip. But Steve didn't care. Steve was happy being a thinker.

 When Steve learned philosophy was open to Juniors, his philosophy on happiness changed. He realized that sometimes to gain more pleasure from life, one must first learn suffering. He began to work hard. He made sure to keep his "C" in British literature. For the first time in about a year, Steve focused on his grades. Just barely, he met the requisites for philosophy. Everyday after that, he thought about how applying himself wasn't a bad thing. He thought about how it was time to stop just thinking and to start doing. The day after he told me this, he was mauled by a bear. His last request was for an closed casket funeral. That Steve, always a thinker.