Some days are a funeral – for no reason at all.
I wear all black and march around in a most somber way.
But what a relief – the death march.
Dying is only letting go of that which wishes to suffer.
Backing away from life? perhaps, or
cocooning, while
watching the melodramatic death scene,
hand to the brow and a long, horrible moan.
I sink deep into the grief for the false self,
then come out laughing,
dancing my way to the grave over and over.
And eventually – (NOW) – i will know,
There’s nothing that can die that is not better off that way…
Why wait?
Life as Improv 