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With a Bang

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I want a white coffin with red polka dots covering it when I die. That’s how I want to be remembered: white-coffin-with-red-polka-dots girl. I want them to play the Beatles at my funeral. That’s how I want to be remembered: “You say you want a revolution” girl. I want no one to cry at my funeral. That’s how I want to be remembered: she-did-everything-she-wanted-to-do girl.

Death is exceedingly morbid. Although Death is imminent, people disregard it. Don’t worry. You’re still young…even though you just turned seventy-five for the fourth time. Why worry about it? It’ll come another day. It’ll come another day. Death may come another day, but are you ready for him to come tomorrow? Are you ready for Death to come in his black tattered flowing robe, his finger pointed at you? If I had Death at my side right now, right now, I die knowing that I did not hug my best friend today…like I should have. In fact, I didn’t hug him the last time I saw him. What if he died today of some massive heart attack? I don’t think I could live knowing that I didn’t tell him that I loved him and then refused him a hug goodbye. I think I owe him a hug next time I see him…

Regret is incredibly funny. He looks like a clown, white paint caked on his face. A red squeaky nose adorns his face, topped off with a ridiculous smile. He dances around, trying to elicit feelings of guilt and want. Want to take back all you have said and done. But why would you feel sorry for yourself for the things you’ve already done? It’s happened. Life continues. Did you learn from it? Are you going to do it again? Well, if it was a bad experience, of course you won’t. Of course, you won’t ever yell at a boss like that again or be good friends with that backstabber again. If it was a good one, of course you will. Of course, you will go to another place like the House of Blues again or want to kiss him again. Regretting love should never happen. You should give, give, give. Love hurts, yet experience is gained. With every person, you give a little piece of yourself. Even the people that walk in front of you for only a split second. You shared a split second of your life with that person, you’ve given a piece of yourself to him or her. Yeah, you may regret finally telling someone how you feel, but you don’t regret feeling that way, do you?

Denial is sick. It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.

Anger is passionate. Red skin with a tight blue dress, she waits with a drink in hand. Anger is never sober. Anger never abandons her post. She is dormant. She sits and listens. “You get somewhere when you are angry.” Yeah, okay, Mr. Oh-You-Think-You-Know-Everything, you still never really think logically when Anger no longer sits dormant and begins to control your mind. To think logically allows you to slow down and see the reality…what is and isn’t, what is perceived and what is real. Deep breaths…they don’t work. Pillows are your best friend. They can take the pain as you rip, scream, and throw. You feel something inside of you that is screaming; Anger is getting all of your attention. And you begin to feel red, hot. You feel like you can’t stop without someone telling you to. No one will tell you. You won’t stop. Unless you do it alone.

Grief is banal. Everyone knows Grief. A sad frown, the end of her mouth facing downward, is always placed strategically placed on her face. With her eyes shut, she allows tears to leak out. Suddenly, she will open her eyes, snapping up like window shades. And the sad frown disappears into a devious, malicious smile, a dagger loosely dangling from her hand. She is looking at you. Grief hurts. She hurts so much that you feel like your insides will pour out. You hold yourself together with your worthless hands, knowing that they can do nothing for you. You cry, you weep, you mourn. Hurt, sting, ache. At times, when you are walking down a hall full of glass windows, you want to punch every single pane out. You want the glass to feel the pain Grief has given you with her dagger; you want it to commiserate with you, understand you, because no else does. You stare at the windows, the empty, blank windows, contemplating, contemplating…but you walk away, knowing that Trouble mixed with Grief is never good.

He and I talk about Death, about Regret, about Denial, about Anger, about Grief. He tells me what he thinks. I tell him what I think. He sees it as punishment. I see it as reward. And then he tells me the truth. Every day he’s with them, those pained, dying, dead, he sees Death, Regret, Denial, Anger, Grief. He tells me how much he’s afraid. I tell him I’m afraid, too. Afraid of the future, the imminent of what is to come. I tell him death is a lonely journey…but I will be there every step of the way to help him make it to that journey. I promise. He nods his head, as I try to tell him everything through my eyes. Everything: I love him more than anyone. Everything: I think of the potential we have together. Everything: We can have a future as one person together. Everything: With the love we could have, we would forever annihilate Grief, Anger, Denial, Regret…Death. Using Passion. Purple Passion who lets anything happen. Purple Passion who loves the critical thinker. Purple Passion who loves to defy the odds. Everything: We can share Passion. Useless…

No black, no tears, all love. That’s how I want to be remembered: she-loved-him-and-all-of-us girl.





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