I Dislike Coffins: Accumulated Sorrow

I dislike coffins.

I remember the day my grandfather was buried; seeing his face through the glass made the hair on my arms stand on end. The mere thought of what a coffin represents filled my heart with doubt. I always tried to avoid the subject, but when my own heart became a casket—housing a weary spirit visible within—my perspective shifted. I want a coffin to offer me peace, not sorrow.

To this day, I cannot shake the darkness of a white casket pressed into the dirt, being swallowed by the earth.

My racing heart loses its color as it hears my sincere confessions; each beat is faint, as if dead. Inside the coffin, peering through the glass, even though I was not truly gone, the stars I watched in the vast void of my interior shimmered with mischief and hope.

I dislike coffins.

Would death even have meaning if this internal, relentless rain decided my end? Sadness and farewell—words I do not trust. Sadness is forever, yet it ends exactly where happiness begins.

But… is it true that a goodbye is truly a goodbye? Where will you go, my love, taking your distance with such a flutter of wings? The only truth I am certain of is that the sky isn’t as blue as they paint it in fairy tales.

But…

I dislike coffins.

I chose what to believe in. Close your eyes and paint the sky yourself. Will you see a shroud of darkness, or the deepest, most beautiful blue in existence?

I don’t know. I never asked myself. My cold gaze was always tethered to the wind and the warmth of those eyes that faded behind the glass. I never saw a sky more beautiful than your eyes in that casket, the white contrasting against your jet-black dress.

Coffins should be black, don’t you think? In the end, we go to heaven, and heaven is dark and lonely—but isn’t that just reality?

In the end, we go to the depths of the sea or vanish with the breeze.

In the end, we are consumed by the earth from which we are born and to which we return. Our bodies begin to succumb, and our thoughts yield to whatever vision remains before our eyes. They will fall into despair, witnessing the wretched world that lost all hope, simply because the black of your eyes prepared to vanish. Your skin will be the last thing I touch—or perhaps it will be the cold metallic trigger of the weapon I’ve always kept inside. But it all ends the same way:

I dislike coffins.

(…)

The fear of the future, the bitterness of the past, or a solitary present. I don’t want to live without you, so I stay here, staring into your eyes. Although, now that I remember…

It is I who lies in the coffin… I think I am the one who is dead.

Perhaps… that is why.

I dislike coffins…

…"

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