When I die...simply drop me amongst the stars.
Let me shine above with no care,
Allow me to live unbounded.
Cast me into the galaxy.
I attended my funeral today; it was a lovely sight. I walked up to the casket, simply at peace. It is a strange sight—seeing a corpse, but no breath; such an eerie moment. It is like looking into a mirror, but your reflection does not cast life. A heavy sigh escapes me, but I knew this day would come...the day I attend my funeral alone. I turn to find a multitude of people. Wow, so many actually saw me? So many care? Or perhaps it is the natural human act: to feign support and admiration...and love when one is alive, but dump it all on the dead. They wail and perform theatrics as if I could see, hear, or feel it. Pity. I’m not sure how many people I counted—nor how many I encountered. Many were silent, some weeping, and others distraught.
Did I forget to mention? I think I let out a tear...a sweat-infused one, dripping down my face...like ichor that drops when a God has been pierced. Though I felt nothing—maybe my body has taken all the hits, and my heart can no longer feel. But...I did feel sad. I was sad—strange.
I lamentably walked to my designated seat—I saluted, but they did not see me. I jeered, but they did not respond. I laughed, but they did not join me. I guess I'm not amusing. Any attempt I made to connect...simply faded, rejected...I felt dejected, for reality hit me—a serious moment. I realized, even in death, we are forgotten. Even in death, we are ignored. Our memories, deeds, woes, and failures are disregarded. Our corpse is saturated with tears, but our being is erased from memory.
The pastor began the ceremony, a cloud of silence. I suppose a moment of remembrance casts a shadow over the procession. A moment I shall not forget, though I am afraid, for I feel like I am fading away. With each moment, as the funeral continues, I feel myself detaching. Even my rotting corpse looks more alive than my state right now.
I watch as a few friends walk to the stage...the last time we shall laugh together. I must take this moment and capture it as a memory, maybe photograph it and keep it with me. God, I hope I can take it with me.
They are now giving speeches to commemorate my life. One of them says, "Man, this guy was kind...a light to everyone, a shining light. An anchor during the storm, and a heart that exuded sweetness." Such kind words...unadulterated truth, perhaps? For who knows, in these moments even the liar tells the truth. Another begins with this: "I compared him to gold; he's someone we don’t want to use too much of, for he is an expensive, rare person." I clung to every syllable though I had no container to put them in...but I longed to cling, and that was enough. Still, isn’t everyone precious? Then I wonder how many have died with no respect; sent off with no quartet. Those poor souls who truly are buried alone. Who, unlike me, are not present to their allotted going. Again, a tear—profuse. Could this be the last time that I hear these words? So delicate and warm, they uplift my spirit—they make me wish to cling to life all the more. The first time that I feel connected. A strange paradox indeed. Bravo! I begin to applaud, and rise with, "AGAIN, PLEASE AGAIN," I cry. "REPEAT THOSE WORDS, for they seem to keep me alive, even if momentarily." Alas, who am I fooling? They cannot hear me, much less can I feel them.
In the periphery of my vision, I see the pallbearers; their latent walk...as if they do not wish for me to go. I ran up to them, pleading for the ceremony to continue, but they walk through me...unphased and resolved. The lid is now closed, and that is the last I saw of my face...my face? What do I even look like? I remembered I existed, but all of a sudden, I do not remember myself. They separate and surround me, lifting me up...I suppose on my way to the cemetery now. They poetically marched, as if I am Caesar commanding my legions. The assembly gets up to bow their heads as I pass them, adorning me with their wishes...their admiration, and their contemplation.
The church is now empty...they have all left me, stranded. The only thing that remains in this church is a paper reading, "In Memoriam." This is a gloomy place, and the stench of death...suffering...despair...and joy amalgamate to a bittersweet fragrance. As for myself, I remained in my seat, not wishing to immediately go out—oh no, I stayed in my space, enjoying this last moment. I understand what is now occurring; I've been to a few funerals, so I know how it goes. The body is loaded up, each person enters their vehicle...on the way to my tightly packed space.
Hey, it occurred to me, I suppose the dead themselves have a funeral, one solitary. Frozen in time for a moment, before accepting reality...before closing one's eyes forever. This is the exact moment I felt detached from my seat. I stood up and took a deep breath...my shoulders rose, then slowly fell. I shook my head, cast a glance to the ceiling...I then bowed, for I have played the game well. I did not ask for it, but I did my damn best. Given the chances, the unfairness, the hurt, the pain, and others...I truly tried my damn hardest.
I walked defiantly to the door...exiting the scene, but what's the rush—for I can clearly see the intangible stream that connected me to my body. A path that I must walk for the last time, one that is clear, for it’s the only way to go...neither narrow, nor wide. So, I take my time and walk, skipping and strutting along the way. On my way, I admire nature: the trees, the grass, and the flowers that I daily ignored. Those things which seemed of no matter were now of great importance. Those little moments that I complained of now seemed pivotal. It was then that I felt a tug—a tremor possessed me. My right hand shook, the left convulsed, and what seemed to be my mind began to unravel. Again, a tear forms, though I do not feel it, for I perceive that I am numb. Or maybe a splash hit me, bringing attention to the road before me. All those moments begin to possess me—as if I were reliving every moment in life. Truly in this moment, existential despair goes away. I suppose death blinds us to things like truth and falsehood, allowing us to create our reality, regardless of it being dogmatic.
I now find myself in the cemetery. I walk up to each person, consoling them, giving them courage for the journey ahead. I shook the hands of my friends and those whom I do not even know. I cast a look at my family...how I miss them already. I quickly looked away, drawn by another funeral. I saw a man...his countenance inconsolable; he looks at me and sighs. No one came to this funeral, no one to make a spectacle. He simply struts...his shoulders bent; his arms too weak to hold on. "This is the end," he says to me. "I will now go." I retorted, "Friend, why don’t you at least enjoy some more fresh air...it is nice weather around these parts." He laughs and says, "You’re funny. I wish we were friends. You seem foolish too, for why does it matter...In the end—
He simply disappeared.
Vanished.
No trace.
No life force...nothing.
My head fell into my hands, and I let out a laugh...a great distraction, for like Kierkegaard said, "What if laughter were really tears?" I now saw what was before me. Do I hold onto hope? Hope in God still? Even when his curses must be fulfilled, for his words always accomplish their purpose.
The pastor asks for everyone to bow their heads, and a prayer is pronounced. A short speech is given about death and life. Somewhere along the way, he says, "Hopefully he has found God and is now with our Lord." An interesting clause to add to this somber moment.
Now truly the parade breaks out...a symphony of cries, yelling, and wailing fills the way. A harmonic joining...a final encore.
The dirt begins to pile. My casket is now being covered, and now I stand baffled. I do not know what to do next. Do I hasten my covering and join in? Do I defiantly protest, demanding that I remain still?
The scene now grows darker, the faces seem hidden, the tears seem to disappear—and my thoughts still run, faster now, for I have so much to say, but the words trip over themselves. They are incoherent and seem to be mere babbles and coos. I find myself in an entangled web that cannot seem to be undone—
It's like—
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