It is in the deeply rooted ordinance of human nature for one to view himself as more exceptional than his peers. For a man is the center of his own being, and thus, the principal character of his story. It is important to realize, however, that everyone is likewise the principal character of their own story, which in turn makes everyone equal in the measures of the universe. The young man did not realize this, though – he who was top of his class at university, who continually sought greatness (and furthermore, achieved it) in each of his hobbies and exploits, and who was reminded of these facts continuously. He was a renaissance man of sorts, and everyone who met him remarked at his brilliance. They told him he was a young man destined for greatness, and he believed them. For what right of his was it to deny the dream of wealth and fame and greatness that at some point touches the heart of every young mind? 
At an early age he had shown an interest in the finer things in life, and he was encouraged to pursue these endeavors. While the other children played outside until the waning hours of the day, the young prodigy read the classics and performed his own experiments. This is not to say, however, that he had no social presence. He was well liked by his peers, as much for his jokes and lively disposition as for his help tutoring any who needed it. It was only at university that this attitude of vitality began to diminish. His studies began to bore him and his academic proficiency put him at odds with his classmates, who he found slow and tasteless. It is no wonder, then, that in this lonely state he began to retract into his own mind, contemplating such things as were the cause of his expulsion from the graces of rapport. He came to realize through these reckonings that the society of which he was a part was so deeply flawed that no power known to man could meld the chasms and gashes that tunnel deep into its core. This disillusionment drove him farther into disassociation from humanity, to cleanse himself of their indescribable wickedness and appeal to whatever gods may watch from above. He renounced all that belonged to mankind, including its wisdom. He burned his books, which he had pored over endlessly in the hopes of obtaining the knowledge of generations past. At the age of 30 he disappeared into the wilderness.  
In the midst of winter, he ventured miles into a forest of gray and ponderosa pines, incense cedars and Douglas firs, snow lying lazily upon the clumps of needles on the coniferous trees. By nightfall he had travelled so far that he could see but one form of life: his own; though it may be argued that at such a point he had lost all the life within him. His body was but a statue, as rigid as the ground beneath his feet and covered in a layer of frost. It was as if God himself had hardened this man so as to chisel from the empty soul a new man, who could better be inured to this world, pushing the old soul deep into the faults he had unearthed. He collapsed, forced to the ground by some other worldly power, or perhaps only by his own weakness. He lay there until the break of dawn.  
He woke early and felt in his digits the unmistakable signs of frostbite. Knowing he had not much longer to live, but having not much more to live for, he ate a feast from his small, hastily assembled pack of provisions. The morning was not especially cold; indeed, the sun shone brightly through the laden boughs of the trees. Still, the lack of any restorative warmth left the man falling into a state of hypothermic shock. Uttering perhaps his last rational thoughts, he remarked to nothing and everything that he had gone thoroughly and undoubtedly insane and wished it all to be only a fever dream. Though he expected no response, he was oddly surprised when none came. Feeling again the cold spreading throughout his body, tracing up his arms and legs like an invasive vine, he realized that by this time tomorrow he would be dead. In a moment of pure consciousness and discernment the man realized in full all that he had done and promptly began to weep. It could barely be heard above the soft rustling of the trees. It was not a loud cry, but a tear’s noise does not determine its value. No, it was not loud, but it was deep. It held in it the sorrow of a man who knew too much. If someone were to hold out a jar and catch the saline droplets that flowed from this man’s face onto the fresh snow and later draw out the salt and study what was left, one would find, perhaps, the knowledge of a thousand generations.  He would find all the pain that comes with that knowledge and history. If he tore the solution apart to its very atoms, he may find there a story, the wish of a desperate man. The story, written on a single tear of this man, would be that of a child, unaware of the pains of this world.