When I say I don’t like funerals
And that I don’t want one when I die
It’s not that I am cynical
At least that’s not the only reason
It’s that those who grieve for the dead
Maybe even the ones who loved the dead person
Only actually mourn the foretelling of their own death
The thought of their own lives curtailed
When they too will end up a pile of ashes in a box.
So they cry
And tell anecdotes that are reminders of how lucky the dead person was
To be the mourner’s friend.
When you are dead you are only a catalyst for sorrow, and
At the mercy of other people’s
Your own stories are buried with you.