Re : Death

Someone who stays anonymous has just commented on my blog entry entitled Death. I think it's a woman, it's got to be the brain of a woman who is thinking in such a manner. So let's call her a she. She has said that I should not think of death as six feet under because while the frail decomposing body lies there, there is afterlife and we are all responsible for whether it goes good of bad in this afterlife. And this makes me tick. I do not want to think about my decomposing body. I go to great lengths to preserve my body, that's what Dior and Estee Lauder are piled up not very neatly on my kitchen table. Yes, I know they are not kitchen things but then I'm no kitchen girl either. I also have a morbid fear of roaches and I have seen them all over the place at the cemetery, and that was six feet above. Imagine what's going on six feet under, it'll be like the Roach Kingdom. One roach didn't stop me visiting the grave of the one I loved, but one other day it was a whole colony. That didn't stop me either, but on my next visit I found Comtec, so I was right to think there was a roach infestation. And that stopped me in my tracks, putting flowers for roaches to party on wasn't my idea of why I kept going to the grave, and that was it, I never stepped in there again. And not going there actually made me heal faster. Perhaps coffins and graves give closure, but I'm not sure it did me any good anyway. As for afterlife. I like to believe that there is afterlife, if only to go there and kick my dead lover in the butt and ask him the rhetorical why. Yes, I know, there is still some anger lying underneath, but I've come a long way. I like to believe I'm going to some perfect place, with a perfect body. That would mean in some Bahamas haven wearing a white bikini on a perfect body in total contentment. I don't think I'm going to qualify for the white wings and the white baby doll outfits. And I like to think that I really believe in a good afterlife, and that we are just on a journey towards it. But I have no proof. Perhaps it's the end there and then. The anonymous she who has left her comments says that Death is not a punishment. Cool, why do we go to all lengths to avoid it then? Why does it make me cry? How the hell can anybody expect a mother to rejoice of her dead son? How come it made me cry for three years, why didn't I just make myself up, wear a feather in my imaginary cap and go out to party? Better still, why didn't I just hold a massive party because death struck in the most vulgar of ways? Death can be so rude, it's language is dirty, and I am not talking about the occasional Z-word here. It's a creepy hitman who strikes when you never are expecting it. My anonymous she has also said that 'by dying we are born to eternal life'. If that were the case we should party around the coffins and dance on the graves. I have no proof of eternal life and yet I like to think it's true. Which makes me a total moron. A silly girl relishing her stupidity?