Preamble is a nice word, very elegant, found she-who-could-be-me-in-another-life use it in some context. And it stirred something in me. I don’t have much to offer by way of preambles, so instead here goes, I believe in epitaphs, and hence one of these days, I shall get down to writing the 100 things about me, before I die. That’s a promise, and then parts of it can be cut-pasted and read out to me on my funeral, I am not being a necrophile here or anything, I believe in being prepared for every eventuality in life and be gracious about everything that comes my way, and death (which is a great leveler by the way) should also receive the same (dis?)respect that life does. I am quite a purist, I do everything to the best of my capability or I don’t do it at all, no halfway houses for me, no dwelling in “in-between” places, it is always either end of the spectrum for me. In that sense, I’d like to see my dying being conducted with as much quiet grace and “being in the flow” as my living. So I am preparing my funeral speech in my head even as I write this, as in what would I say to/about myself if I were dead? Would I say bad things, nice things, spice up some things, add a dash of humor, or just lay it like it is? Hard, cold truths about the person I am. Then again, if I am dead, who else would be better qualified to talk about me than I, myself? For nobody, nobody knows me as well as I do! Now, there, we’ve run into a circular reference here, ain’t it (that is my excel modeling speaking)?

Hence, logically speaking, since nobody knows me as well as I do, stands to reason that on my passing, I should technically provide the brief to whoever would be reading out their eulogies to me, or insults as the case maybe! (Oh yes, I have a few people who are not overtly fond of me and judge me with a lot of vengeance too!). Hence, the preparing of the funeral speech in my head. Now, do I make sense? Ahh, I hear the exhaling, logic has come full circle, and circular reasoning resolved (all you engineers can rest easy now).

When the dust settles

and I lay in the bed

you build for me

garnished with

fistfuls of faithless sand,

fake tears and holy water

Throw me a few laughs

as you stand there

for I am told

Mirth resides but voices don’t

And I might get hungry

For laughter echoing

Six feet under…