And When I Die…

…this topic has been on my mind quite a bit as of late. The thought of my death. I don’t know why. I suppose it’s one of those topics that you find yourself thinking about…and so you tell yourself not to think about it…thus thinking about it more. The epitome of a vicious cycle perhaps.
Some people think that when you find your mind fixated on something, it’s a harbinger of what is to come. I don’t much worry about that. I’m not afraid of dying. I have yet to see someone come back to complain. I don’t even fear the pain that some deaths bring as I once did.
I suppose my biggest fear is for my life to be meaningless. To die without ever really living is my only real fear.
We are all born, and death will come for all of us. It’s the time in-between that truly offers us fear…that we’ve done nothing, stood for nothing, or amounted to nothing.
As my mind wanders though, I find myself thinking lots about my funeral.
How many people will be there?
What will they say?

…etc, etc, etc.

I hope there isn’t a lot of crying at my funeral. That’s a thought I don’t care to bear. There shouldn’t be a lot of liturgy and all that either. I don’t want mourning and sadness. I want a celebration of a life lived.

Let’s be real; this place kind of sucks. I mean life is grand and all that, but it’s hard living, full of crappiness too. The next life has to be better than this, so let’s celebrate that transition.

There should be lots of laughing. I laugh all the time. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t do serious well. It’s just not my style.
So, definitely laughing. There should also be music. Music is the cornerstone of my existence. There should be lots of music. A few songs in particular:
The gospel song. “I Feel Like Going On”

“You’ll Never Walk Alone”

“Somewhere over the rainbow”

“Georgia on my mind”

All of these songs have deep sentimental meaning to me.  They very well frame a life well lived.

I want there to be stories…lots of stories. I love a good story. I tell a decent one too. But people should share their memories and moments.

I don’t want to be buried in a suit. Once again, so not my style. Also, what a waste of a good suit. Bury me in a nice pair of jeans, and a button-down shirt. That’s be ok. I can’t fathom the thought of someone trying to stick me in some clown suit and dress shoes. I shudder enough wearing that jazz in my professional life. Perhaps they could bury me in one of my gi’s. I think that would be perfect…ready to choke out any ghouls or the devil himself.

It’s weird how these thoughts have filled my mind.  I suppose it’s also nice to get them out.  It’s often hard to talk to people about some things.

On and ever upward.


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