(no subject)
Tears Are Required
When I die, I want people to cry for me.
I want to have at least more than a hundred people in my funeral. My doctor should be there, and my lawyer, including their families. Tears are
required.
And they can’t be fake.
They have to be real, salty, large drops of tears.
For it to be real, their noses should be red and runny and they should look ugly. Disheveled. Not like those movie stars who still look gorgeous during death scenes. Mine should be a practical funeral; my visitors are not allowed to thrash about.
They shall weep in silence, like normal people would. There should be
snot in their faces, in their clothes.
They will look at my stuffed body and the tears will come rolling. And they should be restless for several days.
I want my mother to be so depressed to the point of breaking down, so that
she’ll be desperate enough to call the man she divorced, and then he’ll come and they’ll both look at my grave together, like true parents.
But you, Lover, I don’t want you to cry. I want you to feel so hollow, so numb that you can’t even shed tears over my departure.
I want you to call out my name and wish for me to come back. I want you to curse God for taking me. I want you to whisper I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you, with dry, chapped lips against the glass between my mouth and yours.
When that time comes, I will feel love for the first time.
And you will be distraught.
And you will kill yourself.
And you will have a funeral, with many, many people. Tears are required, because who does not love you?
And we will meet again, and you shall say that you love me, that we should never be apart. That’s how it is going to be.
Prove me that you love me. I have proven myself by stepping out the window, freer than the people down below. They will cry to prove their love, but you only need to jump.
I will be waiting.
When I die, I want people to cry for me.
I want to have at least more than a hundred people in my funeral. My doctor should be there, and my lawyer, including their families. Tears are
required.
And they can’t be fake.
They have to be real, salty, large drops of tears.
For it to be real, their noses should be red and runny and they should look ugly. Disheveled. Not like those movie stars who still look gorgeous during death scenes. Mine should be a practical funeral; my visitors are not allowed to thrash about.
They shall weep in silence, like normal people would. There should be
snot in their faces, in their clothes.
They will look at my stuffed body and the tears will come rolling. And they should be restless for several days.
I want my mother to be so depressed to the point of breaking down, so that
she’ll be desperate enough to call the man she divorced, and then he’ll come and they’ll both look at my grave together, like true parents.
But you, Lover, I don’t want you to cry. I want you to feel so hollow, so numb that you can’t even shed tears over my departure.
I want you to call out my name and wish for me to come back. I want you to curse God for taking me. I want you to whisper I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you, with dry, chapped lips against the glass between my mouth and yours.
When that time comes, I will feel love for the first time.
And you will be distraught.
And you will kill yourself.
And you will have a funeral, with many, many people. Tears are required, because who does not love you?
And we will meet again, and you shall say that you love me, that we should never be apart. That’s how it is going to be.
Prove me that you love me. I have proven myself by stepping out the window, freer than the people down below. They will cry to prove their love, but you only need to jump.
I will be waiting.