Less than a square foot, Paint peeling from the wall, Stuck out of the building, Protruded, as unwelcome as a sudden Visitor who drains life, the balcony Looks awkward, soot with dust. The Net, screwed tightly into the windowpane Misted her vision slightly. The middle age Woman, standing with a mug of hot Tea, its steam covered her wrinkled Eyes, was watching her son playing Tennis in the court. Only the ball, Bright yellow, was visible, a sharp Contrast to the dry-fit black shirt that He was wearing. Grown but scrawny, He ran backward and forward, his Racket captured every hit precisely.
She felt a sense of pride swelling in Her chest, and suddenly laughed at Herself over the cliché expression. A sense of loneliness, previously Alien to her, choked her throat, Clogging her voice. She wanted To clap, but unable. She dropped The mug of the tea on the floor. The hot tea cleansed the dust but She felt like an old woman, her Prime was washed away, just as Her son just missed the ball.
We sing her a song, A song from the bank Of memory that stretches As far as the beginning Of century. The song of wonder And contentment, the song of Endless love. A cliché song, The biggest mistake one Could ever make is composing This song. The lyrics are Too sentimental. It tries Too hard to invite tears That will not appear. Yet, we still sing with Our heart, as though It’s the best song In the world, that depicts Neither our story nor Our hope. Yet, we Sing her this song, seeing Her smile, from the cold Slab of stone staring Right back at us.
Counting the sequence of death slowly. Mouth ballooned with hot air that travelled south, crushing the lungs with inexplicable force, squeezing the life out of the vessels until it turns cold. I looked, waited, panted, hyperventilated.
Still quiet, still quiet. Unless there is some love lingering, like a mother staring at her child, sleeping in an innocent pose that brings you to a new birth, there could be no resolution. Eyes closed, fists clenched, minutes dwindled into seconds. Hush now, close your eyes and sleep.
Pregnant with thoughts, I started burping air that escaped from my stomach, a stench that nobody would recognise until they sniffed it, their nose all turned up, wondering if it was the same air that they emitted themselves.
I absorb you anger like a sponge, not because I am new, but rather, I am old, moldy, contagious, unruly, wily, uncontrollably dirty, ready to grow into a witch, with a crack that can be mistaken to be my smile, and let it be, while I absorb half-heartedly, ineptly, failingly, your emotion, which is as fatal as cyanide, slow poisoning my lung, until I grasp the air like a pneumonic patient who finds a tumor growing in two leaves that I would rather leave in alone.
A few friends discussed about the issues revolving life and death over the last few days. Coincidentally, the topic was brought up on two occasions: a gathering with Eme and Angie, as well as discussion with my colleagues today. The topic was “My Funeral”. Yes, you read it correctly – my funeral!
As it may be depressing for someone to discuss funeral, I could proudly declare that I have my funeral all planned out, not out of sheer morbidity but out of undying love for life. I love life, and therefore I fully comprehend the inevitability of death. Since death is inevitable, I might as well have it all planned out for my final exit, instead of depending on some people who might roll out my funeral as what an orthodox would do.
I want my funeral to be laced with Champagne. I want people going to my funeral to laugh. Yes, you can laugh at me, laugh about me, and laugh with me. You will be treated to a champagne fountain, with Mariah as my background music. I want you to dance, because I like to dance. I want you to drink, because I like to drink. I want you to celebrate life, because I celebrate mine. I want you to be happy, because I am happy to have known all of you.
Yes, I might have a few regrets in my life, but it’s not enough to discourage me from living the life that I have and I will. I might have made a few mistakes in my life, and those mistakes make me who I am today, whether you love or hate me. Yes, today, if someone asks me if I would live my life like this all over again, my answer is definitely positive!
I want to die young because I am stupid enough to subscribe to ageism. I can’t see myself growing wrinkled, with white hair on my head. I will go for plastic surgery until scientific discoveries fail to make me look young again. I may be shallow and stupid, but I definitely love my life so much. And I embrace every bit of ups and downs of it.
To all my dear friends: live your life as you would and you want to. And live it fervently until your last breath leaves me. If you do so, perhaps you will understand why I happily plan my funeral, and forbid tears during the process.
Let’s start planning for the inevitable so that you know what limited time you have in this world, and start doing whatever you want to do. Don’t ever die in regrets – because that’s when I really will cry for you.
You should strongly consider majoring (or minoring) in Communication, English, Film, Journalism, Literature, or Writing.
It is possible that the best major for you is your 2nd, 3rd, or even 5th listed category, so be sure to consider ALL majors in your OTHER high scoring categories (below). You may score high in a category you didnt think you would--it is possible that a great major for you is something you once dismissed as not for you. The right major for you will be something 1) you love and enjoy and 2) are really great at it.
Consider adding a minor or double majoring to make yourself standout and to combine your interests. Please post your results in your myspace/blog/journal.