(no subject)
it snowed yesterday. the early mornings after heavy snows when the clouds clear and the sun sets the white landscape on fire are my favorite times, so i don my heavy boots and brave the bleached landscape.
a strange thing happens when it snows, where everything is erased, and all the roads and streets are all excised, and there are brief moments where you can see the past, before human ingenuity and invention.
but the moment is fleeting and i continue trudging through the powder. the whole plane is undisturbed except for the markings left by my boots sinking through the snow, step by step, and there is a satisfaction gained from the destruction of the unbroken surface.
i don't have anywhere to go, and i find myself heading towards the cemetery. i suppose right about now i'd be walking across the train tracks, but i plow forward to the gate. the tombstones are uniformly covered in snow, and they're all rough-cut stone, made into crosses and rectangles, not a polish among them. i find this satisfactory, no gaudy obelisks or angels.
i stop to wipe the snow off the face of one, curiosity grabbing me. there is no name, no date, just this:
"Remember me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I,
As I am now, so you will be,
Prepare for death and follow me."
i find this fitting, and get up and move on. the cemetery sits on the top of a small knoll outside of town, and overlooks the one story shops of main street. i was content in thinking i could be back in time, walking through graves hand dug by the anguish of men, 6 feet deep with 2 men and a shovel each. but the illusion is shattered and here i am back in present day.
because even cemeteries have websites now.
who profits from a death? even death is a business, and i bet business is good. there are men and women willing to die for country, for money, for beliefs, and the pursuit of happiness. hell, there are more reasons for dying than living now.
but can you put a price tag on a life? and is it acceptable to profit from the death of others? i'm really sorry for your loss, but do you really think it's okay to attach your bank account number to a tragedy?
i'd like to think that even dying used to be honest. and that even the coffin builders of the past could find some sort of satisfaction from their work, be it melancholy and morbid. i mean, even jesus was a carpenter, it would be hard to believe he didn't build a body box once or twice in his life.
i walk among the randomly set grave plots, touching the tombstones as i walk. i could make a metaphor here about touching death, but all i keep wondering is if they're cold when snow falls.
a strange thing happens when it snows, where everything is erased, and all the roads and streets are all excised, and there are brief moments where you can see the past, before human ingenuity and invention.
but the moment is fleeting and i continue trudging through the powder. the whole plane is undisturbed except for the markings left by my boots sinking through the snow, step by step, and there is a satisfaction gained from the destruction of the unbroken surface.
i don't have anywhere to go, and i find myself heading towards the cemetery. i suppose right about now i'd be walking across the train tracks, but i plow forward to the gate. the tombstones are uniformly covered in snow, and they're all rough-cut stone, made into crosses and rectangles, not a polish among them. i find this satisfactory, no gaudy obelisks or angels.
i stop to wipe the snow off the face of one, curiosity grabbing me. there is no name, no date, just this:
"Remember me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I,
As I am now, so you will be,
Prepare for death and follow me."
i find this fitting, and get up and move on. the cemetery sits on the top of a small knoll outside of town, and overlooks the one story shops of main street. i was content in thinking i could be back in time, walking through graves hand dug by the anguish of men, 6 feet deep with 2 men and a shovel each. but the illusion is shattered and here i am back in present day.
because even cemeteries have websites now.
who profits from a death? even death is a business, and i bet business is good. there are men and women willing to die for country, for money, for beliefs, and the pursuit of happiness. hell, there are more reasons for dying than living now.
but can you put a price tag on a life? and is it acceptable to profit from the death of others? i'm really sorry for your loss, but do you really think it's okay to attach your bank account number to a tragedy?
i'd like to think that even dying used to be honest. and that even the coffin builders of the past could find some sort of satisfaction from their work, be it melancholy and morbid. i mean, even jesus was a carpenter, it would be hard to believe he didn't build a body box once or twice in his life.
i walk among the randomly set grave plots, touching the tombstones as i walk. i could make a metaphor here about touching death, but all i keep wondering is if they're cold when snow falls.