I always think about my death. Of how people will react to the news of my death. And the first thing they will say when they get the news about my death. I never think about what will be said at my funeral though. Because to be honest, I don’t think I have met the person who will eulogize me properly, well except for my parents, who I never talk to that much. (Like when I’m on phone with my mum, we talk about what we’re eating, or what we ate, or if we intend to eat at all. Basically, we talk about food. And the weather. When I’m on phone with my father, I ask how he is – he always says he’s fine, by the way – and then I ask about the weather and then that’s it.) I think about how I will look like, dead. But that doesn’t bemuse me. I like to imagine my mother will be at my funeral, because I cannot handle, or fathom having it the other way round – I think a lot, don’t I?
Sometimes, this scares me. Other times, I want to die! I want to die, because I’m so afraid of dealing with life. I want to die because sometimes I think that the absence my death will cause, will copiously punish those who have wronged me. But then again I imagine they will probably not give a hoot, like I will have done them a favor. I just want to die, so much so, that I want to live. Because I think of what a shame it would be to die, not having have lived. Not having tried to do something with my life.
I want to live. So much, because I know one day I will be someone. Someone whom – the people I want to punish with my death – will look at and be ashamed of their deeds. I want to shame them with my life and existence.
I want to be fearless. To deal with all the things that put me down on the days I want to punish people. All in all, it doesn’t matter who you are, what you do, how much you have. I don’t think there’s anyone else who will experience a coronation or assumption in their death. Thus, be kind. Be thoughtful. Be daring, but civil. But most of all, live;