Don’t bury me. For the love of God don’t bury me.
I never want to go to my grandmother’s grave, never again. I understand why they go. I understand the cultural significance and emotional need for some individuals to have a place to visit and express their fear and grief.
It feels like a show. I am forced by my family to play into old emotions and act out conversations with God that I’ve long buried along with her chemical-filled flesh. She is dead, and I don’t want to be here. To be surrounded by the sadness where they left her, inhumed by six feet of affliction to no avail, is daft. This cold earth is not you; you are above me.
They keep trapped down and laid out with their fears and anxiety and refusal to let go of the things they cannot change. Grave yards are capsule prisons of time.
When I die cremate me. Burn me. Let all the good flicker into the atmosphere leaving all of my pain and the sins of my transgressions in my ashes. All doubt, all fear, regret, circumstance will dwell in my cinder.
I don’t want to be remained as a performance. I know that you will cry; I don’t expect otherwise. But at some point you must keep living. You must live for the living. It’s been almost ten years. I’ve grown weary of holidays; family gatherings will reduce us to tears. They cry. I have happy memories of her. And I miss her still, in the momentary and the milestones. She is here with me. Her energy lives in me, and I give it to those I love while their love remains cold, rotten, and buried.
SYDSUGOI SPEAKS 