[DIGITAL OBITUARY LOG // SYSTEM-ASSIGNED BURIAL ENTRY]
Subject of Death: Fabricated Identity
Origin: Misinformation
Cause of Death: Documentation, Surveillance, Legal Response
Funeral Type: Public
Status: Terminated
Authorised by: The one who outlived the lie
ENTRY // 110: THIS POST ISN’T A REBUTTAL. IT’S A BURIAL.
Let me be clear from the start:
This is not about me.
This is about him.
The fiction.
The persona you all shaped and sharpened like a knife,
then threw into the algorithm and called “truth.”
The one you laughed about.
The one you posted about.
The one you judged.
The one you reshared.
The one who never existed.
Until you made him real through repetition.
Well—today I bury him.
Properly.
Permanently.
ENTRY // 111: YOU NEEDED A VERSION OF ME YOU COULD HURT
You didn’t want facts.
You wanted a symbol.
Someone to cancel.
Someone to humiliate.
Someone to turn into an example.
And when I didn’t offer that willingly,
you invented it.
You created a hollow version of me,
stripped of history,
stripped of context,
stripped of humanity —
and filled with everything you feared, hated, or could profit from.
And once you built him?
You beat him publicly.
Again.
And again.
And again.
ENTRY // 112: I WATCHED YOU FEED ON A BODY YOU NEVER VERIFIED
That’s what made it worse.
You didn’t care if it was accurate.
You didn’t care if it was fair.
You didn’t even check if it was real.
You just took the narrative
and passed it around like a corpse at a festival.
Every new share — a kick.
Every new comment — a stone.
You performed the execution with your phones.
And then moved on like it never happened.
But it did.
And I kept everything.
ENTRY // 113: I TRIED TO EXPLAIN. I TRIED TO CORRECT. I TRIED TO ASK.
But you weren’t listening.
You weren’t interested.
Truth was inconvenient.
Correction was boring.
And besides — the version of me you made was so much easier to hate.
So I stopped explaining.
I started recording.
And I started building this:
An archive, a courtroom, a graveyard.
Today, it becomes all three.
ENTRY // 114: THIS IS A DEATH NOTICE. BUT NOT MINE.
He’s dead now.
The false one.
The digital scarecrow you dressed in my face.
The caricature.
The stripped-down version built from screenshots, slander, and assumptions.
You don’t get to use him anymore.
You don’t get to reshare him,
revive him,
reuse him as leverage.
He’s been documented into extinction.
Buried under court filings, metadata, timestamps, analytics, and truth.
I held the funeral.
You wrote the eulogy without knowing it.
ENTRY // 115: THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU OUTLIVE A LIE
When people realise the version they mocked is no longer available,
they panic.
They try to revive him.
Pretend he was real.
Pretend you were always that person.
But that only works
if I stay quiet.
And I didn’t.
I spoke.
I filed.
I blogged.
I survived.
And now I write the obituary —
for the thing you thought would become permanent.
ENTRY // 116: I AM NOT THAT VERSION. AND I NEVER WAS.
Let me say it clearly:
I am not what you said.
I am not what you assumed.
I am not the story you found convenient.
I am not that screenshot.
I am not that comment thread.
I am not that viral summary of my life,
written by people who never even knew how to spell my name correctly.
He’s dead.
That version.
That lie.
I watched him die slowly
in your mouths,
in your fingers,
in your silence.
But I walked away.
He didn’t.
[BLACK FILE // OBITUARY LOGGED & SEALED]
Subject of Death: Digital fabrication
Final Words: Buried by the one you targeted
Resurrection Attempts: Blocked
Reuse Rights: Denied
Replacement: Not applicable
Truth Status: Active
You dragged that version of me through the dirt.
I dragged it to the grave.
Today, I bury what you built.
And I keep walking —
untouched. Unforgiven. Undeniable.
Truth & Advocacy By Calvin-Lee Hardie - Inverness 