Let’s Party.
If you’ll allow me to plumb the depths of full-on narcissism, I’d like to be involved in planning my own funeral.
There will be at least ten kegs of beer. Streamers, smoke machine, strobes. There will be a DJ playing Daft Punk and The Band. And everyone will be unselfconsciously dancing, as if there were no limit to their movement or motion.
I’ll be somewhat disappointed if those present weren’t rowdily singing Wild Horses as the evening draws to a pre-dawn close.
—
There’s a strange sentiment lingering around lately, an apparition in the corner of our metaphysical eye. As if our end wasn’t something to be honored.
When I’m gone, I want it to be good.
I think about what time will be like as I wander around those conclusive years, those imminent minutes.
I’d like to think that my final seconds will lead up to something amazing. I’d like to believe there’s a subtle infinity buried deep in the baloney. (Perhaps our endlessness is the acceptance that this was all really worth something.)
As we face the immediacy of our modern media, more and more people we know are going to be disappearing at an increasing frequency. Rather than bemoaning the spilt milk, I salute us all on our way upward.
Here’s to you. And me.