In his last moment of life, he looked to the ceiling with utter contempt on his face. The ceiling is not the sky, and his spirit would never exit this room, he thought.
He then watched as the world went black, waiting for the consciousness of an afterlife to set in.
He waited an eternity in darkness, and it did not matter.
The ceremony was filled with bright streams of conscious thoughts, and much laughing and crying. Those subject to it left with little more than they entered with. Only a new need for solace, and a newly impeded sense of impermanence.
There were many tears, and if he were there to witness his funeral, he would have cried to realize how loved he truly was. He would have realized all the reasons for living, and he would've quietly returned the gun, and the pills, and gone on about his day, fighting for some assemblance of happiness in a very dark and frustrating world; knowing that some small shimmer of hope existed, and must transcend beyond his funeral.
However, his realizations were no more. He was dead, and there was no hope of being alive again; unaware even enough to observe his own death. It had happened, and now, merely had to become a thing of the past.