The details of my death are irrelevant, they weren’t as pretty as I’d hoped and I’m traumatised having died with that knowledge. LOVING this candles and fancy silver situation mother is carefully arranging on the table, it’s a little disturbing that she expects all to sit and eat around a coffin but I can take being a central figure, no problem. Who knew she had it in her: pulling herself together like that, laying out family’s best sliver with surgical precision – smaller knives further from the plate, larger knives closer to the plate. Boy, am I glad that there is still mother after death. All this clinking and clanking though, I could do without.

The guests of the deceased must be the most exciting part about every death, non? From my somewhat cloudy childhood, I remember occasionally wishing to die for a day just to see who cries for me the loudest and how hard the bell actually tolls. Good news, sinners, you can now do it in real death – IRD! Something to look forward to. While I lie in my freshly sewn and billowing satin in anticipation of the incoming mourners, my focus shifts towards the dancing fires of the candles mother had lit to fight the darkness. While I was conflicted, to different variances of degree, about a myriad of things back in life, the darkness vs light dilemma compromised me till the end. I hated night but I loved the dark. Dark days brought joy. There’d better be no artificial light where I’m going. I must admit however, I am feeling the mysteriousness and the enigma of the playing candle shadows that are biting the walls and saluting my death. Or maybe they are saluting my life – I guess that is up for an interpretation.

I’m hungry, man. Did you know you can be hungry AND dead? Do the rules still apply and I’d have to wait for everybody’s arrival before I’m allowed a lame canape? Which reminds me, I should have made a black list of estranged friends whose presence is not welcome and delegated it to mother to oversee my pettiness outlives me. Would banning from a funeral count as satisfying revenge? Of course, it would. Too late, just going to have to put my best resting bitch face on and pretend I’ve loved everyone who enters this room. Since I am expired and the look on my face is open for reading this will be the easiest acting job I’ve ever done. Why can’t I see anyone? Even for the last damn time they can’t be punctual – what kind of respect is this, they had one job. No offence to present company, but I’m ready for more… life, for lack of a better word, at this farewell. Savage cries of horror and all that.

It is perhaps rather fine, being dead. Underrated in the modern world. If somebody actually showed up I could tell them. A little weepy, but since I was raised without a soul and abstained from crying in life I can allow an occasional emotional tear that nobody will witness. It’s the memories, you see, though I am sure you have figured as much. It’s the memories of music and other, less interesting, sounds. Purgatory wouldn’t seem as endless if they put a bit of Mozart on, is it too much to ask? Unless, of course, they’d have to pay for the copy rights? Stingy bastards. Wait, where has Mozart come from? Not something I’d listen to while I was alive. Death is full of surprises.

There are bitter memories, too. It’s not true what they say – when the end comes one holds on to the good times. What a bag-of-lies delivery. The bad days, cold days, screaming days, tortured days, lost days – they are all with me now, weaved through and around the pristine satin in the coffin, anticipating every move of the shadows from the candles, every bad choice reflecting and bouncing off the silver. Did I just manage to depress my dead self? That said, I loved my bitter days… If any life, my life, could indeed consist of a single moment I’d like it to be now – a dream of a continuous, uninterrupted beauty sleep coming true, a dark and empty falling that I won’t blink away. No clinging to life which I had dreamt to spend in a magnificent way but didn’t.

Thank you for having me, death.

(March, 2018.)