Don’t get me wrong, but I love to read and all that junk, but at the same time, being forced to read something from my “ancestors” in the writing biz is horrible. I know that Stephen King emanates Mr. Poe, but I don’t like King, so what do I have to learn from Poe? How to write while your drunk, maybe? Or, how to interpret a glass of gin into a horrible monster out to eat your insides? Just kidding, but really, that guy’s grip on reality was minimal…maybe even non-existent. Anyway. So, at the beginning of the year, we were studying poems centered around death and I sat in the back of the class mumbling under my breath as I tried not to throw my book at the annoying twit who sits three seats in front of me. *grinds teeth*
My teacher kept trying to get us to respond and tell her what we thought about poems, asking us why they talk about death…. I WILL TELL YOU!! (Since she wouldn’t listen to me in class…)
Humans are obsessed with the unkown. We chase after it, like we chase our fears, because we fear what we aren’t, what we don’t understand, and what we don’t know. We don’t understand the afterlife, so we examine and fear death–what happens when we die? No one knows, so we fear it. We hold funerals to console the living–the dead don’t care. They have moved onto wherever, hopefully and I think that if you mourn for them, you are keeping them from their afterlife, or whatever they are going to.
This is why I am going to be cremated and scattered in a forest, so the ground can soak me up… I won’t tell my Catholic grandmother that, she might keel over from a heart attack. Maybe I should pay attention in class….