Death offers no escape. Even in the moment of nonexistence, our ceasing to exist becomes objectified. It becomes a simple narrative. A copy with no origin left, soon to become the only reality anyone remembers. This is why when people die even those who disliked them show up and shed crocodile tears. Not for any sense of respect, mind you. People live a life of cowardice; castration through civility. They die, only to be superseded by another coward.
Romancing the past sabotages most efforts at painting a realistic picture of the deceased. Even among friends and communities it happens.
It’s terrifying how through our own desire to remember, honor, and cherish the memories of loved ones past we end up locking them up in a cage of sentimental simplification.
I remember this one kid I knew growing up who died in a car accident. The funeral was packed. Everyone loved this kid, and for good reason. Did I know him super well? Not really. But I try to think about how he’s remembered now. In my head, that is. To write out a short description of someone I knew in highschool, whose death affected a lot of us, seems disingenuous.
My grandfather on my dad’s side passed away a while ago. And even though I was probably too young then to fully know him, it too feels disingenuous to describe him.
Maybe I just haven’t had anyone super close to me pass away. Not that that’s anything to brag about or beat myself up over.
No one wants to plan a funeral. Seems like one of the worst things you could plan. Meaningfully communicate someone’s entire existence in a short time-span, while emotionally and physically wrecked over their passing, and then hear everyone’s sad explanations of emotional solidarity with the family? Fuck…
Descriptions are prisons with good intentions.
Would a series of stories communicate more substance? Even those are distorted by the time time cuts out.
It’s not time that eventually snuffs you out of existence, but everyone’s memories. It’s why so many people - whether dictators or rat race participants - become consumed with making a name for themselves. The sheer dread of distortion after death is terrifying.
The myth of control never wavers for many. That is, until the last flower is thrown on their graves, and their bodies are drawn, quartered, and burned at the stake by their so-called “loved ones.”
Don’t fear death. Fear the emotional piranhas who kneel at your grave.
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