Each day I wonder if I am good enough, but then I die, and it all falls down like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and its guiding sticks have clattered to the floor, where there lies a metal disc that contains all my life, and then there is nothing left, nothing, nothing.
In death, I leave a legacy, a bequeathal, a story, no a thousand stories-pages and pages, piles of those pages, all sewn up in love and hate and absurdity and sadness, my emotions long shattered as my body- all the pieces they could find- slowly grows a little, and then it crumbles away. They say the greats will never die, but I’m not one of them, and my body rots and stinks and turns to mush in this final resting chamber, as I lie here all wrapped in white.
They say that when you die, your corpse hovers in the city you lived in and gathers its shroud, all the things you ever did, all the things you’ve done. All the things you’ve done, they wrap you up around you and form your figurative shroud, and hide your death.(except they don’t say that) My death.
Momentarily, as people stand and remember. Remember the way I walked or had tuna between my teeth on my 46th birthday, or how when I was 24, I crashed the hybrid into the playground, or how when I was 36, I jumped of a cliff and survived.And then they walk away and they leave the graveyard and shake off my dust, shake it all off, and leave. They push off my dreams and hope and expectations that still hover pathetically begging at the gates of the graveyard, push them away as they stretch up their hands and beg, and tell them that they have no loose change. They tell them to disappear, because they’re scared of them, now that I’m dead.
And they forget, they are already forgetting me. I forget them too.
I forgot them too. A long time ago. Berfore my corpse had ever been put into the ground.
I wonder if my bones will grow out into trees, whether they’ll become stardust.