Our communion with the corpse is an interrogation of sorts, and the one on the receiving end of our tears is the mirror by which we glimpse the endpoint of our incessant flailing.
Ashamed by the prospect of an undignified death, we present ourselves before the casket to deliver a proper farewell. Some wear veils to shield their eyes from those who see in them the hint of latent decay.
We spend eight or so decades in protest, caught up in every cause but the one that has meaning. And in the eyes of the corpse we see ourselves, asking the questions we bury with distractions. How we choose to answer them is largely up to us, though the endpoint is always the same.
Ours is a slow funereal procession, one marked by words and gestures that do little to prepare us for our eternal dialogue with the coffin. It would do us some good to assume the supine from time to time, if only to grow accustomed to the position we will take upon severing ties with the flesh.
Ashamed by the prospect of an undignified death, we present ourselves before the casket to deliver a proper farewell. Some wear veils to shield their eyes from those who see in them the hint of latent decay.
We spend eight or so decades in protest, caught up in every cause but the one that has meaning. And in the eyes of the corpse we see ourselves, asking the questions we bury with distractions. How we choose to answer them is largely up to us, though the endpoint is always the same.
Ours is a slow funereal procession, one marked by words and gestures that do little to prepare us for our eternal dialogue with the coffin. It would do us some good to assume the supine from time to time, if only to grow accustomed to the position we will take upon severing ties with the flesh.
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