The day I will fall, I'd like to be buried under a tree so I could feed the Earth.
I owe her that much; she was generous to me. May my flesh and bones be for her a form of forgiveness for all that Man and Woman have done to her since the first apple.
I don't want to be thrown into the fire. Instead, I'd be immersed under a forest to whisper through its roots everything I still have to say. If we are eternal, it is through the offering of our atoms.
I was stardust, they say. I'll be back in a millennium. I am but an ephemeral agglomerate of life. My humble dispersion will follow, my mute melody.
I remember. I carried my father, enshrined in his urn, to the altar of his funeral. He was there, against my heart, enveloping my sobs. My life with him went on despite the ashes. These words are symbolic. But we feel them as tangible certainties or hopes.
So, when her time comes, my mother wants to be by her lover's side, whatever form that may take. She, too, sees herself buried in a plot of land, preferably not far from her ancestors. Our consciousness, though immediate, does not resolve itself into silence. Our thoughts and wishes weave a strange and magical DNA.
Since I have no family or descendants, let the ground or the air be my companion. I won't be there to experience my death, just as my end knows nothing of my existence.
That might be continuum material, yet the walls are watertight. The mystery remains.
Do what pleases you with me. I hope to be somewhere else, even if I can't get wind of it. To the innocent with full hands. And to the dead galaxies as sarcophagi.