When I die, I do not want to be buried in the ground for my panicked, living flesh retches at its sentimentality. I shudder imagining myself trapped in a desperate box, dark-carved wood - solid as hell; my arms all stiff not wanting to budge even for a second, not even to reach for the skies; worms feasting on my putrid body; fat stubborn maggots crawling my eyes; sand in my fingers; water seeping in lightly tickling my feet; water the color of blood.
Here, now, in the middle of the night a cobbled thought was born: I do not want to be buried on this godforsaken ground. I'd rather burn and have my ashes scattered all over the seven seas under that awning they call the sky; where I would feel free; thin as air, liberated; not dreadfully trapped.
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