Torn To Pieces

I think when I die, I would like to have a sky burial. Not that I think the US government would allow someone to feed me to vultures, but if I happen to die in Tibet, I think that’s what I want.

It’s not that I like the idea that my body, which I am unlikely to need again, could be useful to some other living creatures. It’s also not that I like the idea of my remnants being carried into the sky rather buried under ground. It’s not even the distaste I have for idea of plunking $10,000 down to put me in a fancy coffin and taking up a spot in the ground in perpetuity.

It’s that I want the people in my life to see that I’m really dead. Really really dead. Game over. No redos. No illusion that I’m sleeping in a box under the ground. If I could perform one act of generosity with my death, it would be to remind the people around me that their days are as numbered as mine were.

I think many people would make their decisions a bit (or a lot differently) if they really came to terms with the real possibility that every single thing you do every single day could well be your last. And even if it isn’t your last, what if it’s your next to last? Your third from last? You five thousandth from last? How many moments do you need to know that you have left before they’re no longer precious?

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