Dead or otherwise, being placed in a box six feet down into the earth does not impress me in the least. Even less appealing would be to be buried at sea, involving either being devoured by beasts of the ocean or sinking to the very deep and dark ocean floor. The one I hate the least is the idea of being reduced to ash, though I wouldn’t want the claustrophobia of sitting inside a teensy urn for who knows how long either.
I get it. I’ll be beyond death so it will matter not the cramped, dark quarters of a casket with maggots perforating and devouring me. I won’t be screaming for air as I plummet ten thousand feet into the cold drink. And I won’t feel the flames licking me nor will I not feel I can’t stretch my legs in the urn above someone’s fireplace. But it matters not.
I’m a Christian so I’m one to talk. I’m not worried about everlasting darkness or eternal flames. I believe this life, though with meaning, is a blink-of-the-eye starting point. What we do now will, to a degree, echo in eternity.
Doesn’t mean I don’t get down. I’m still in a cycle of sorts and the dark holds zero light. Doing it alone is the worst. Wish someone would simply say hey. You aren’t alone. I have ears and five minutes. Too much to ask though I’ve tried.
I find myself retreating to my room often lately. It’s not without meaning; typically to write or read. I nap more than I should. I almost want to be off the hook parenting wise, as though I filled my quota of 21 years. I don’t not want any responsibility, I’m just in the in between.
And so the dirt falls on my head, gently and almost unnoticeable. It’s happening to us all. We can’t stop it. We go on living our lives. Do something. Or not.