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We stand here not to romanticize Ascence, but to face him as he was.
Unlike Jimbo, who at least carried some warmth in his simplicity, Ascence's body was a prison, bloated, sluggish, and a constant reminder of the genes and choices stacked against him. He wasn't graceful, he wasn't strong, and life never gave him the tools to hide it.
Of African blood, he clung to his ancestry because it was the only crown he could wear. The food, the music, the echoes of a stronger lineage, these were sparks of dignity in a life otherwise weighed down by his own flesh. Meals with him were never elegant, but they were real: heavy plates, heavy silences, heavy truths.
Ascence had no charm to polish the rough edges. His smell lingered, his presence was awkward, and his honesty often cut deeper than anyone wanted. People either turned away or endured him. He was not loved by many, but he was never fake. That, at least, was his defiance.
In the end, he couldn't carry the weight anymore. Suicide was his exit, brutal and final. Maybe it was the only way he saw to strip himself of the body and the burdens that dragged him through every day. We don't pretend to understand, but we don't lie either: life broke him.
Still, there's something to take from him. Ascence lived without masks, even when that rawness made him unbearable. He forced the world to see him as he wasz ugly, flawed, but unfiltered. And that kind of truth, however hard to swallow, is rare.
Rest now, Ascence.
You were no hero, but you were real. And in a world full of liars and pretenders, even your raw imperfection deserves to be remembered.
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