Rant : Visiting a Grave

Visiting the grave of loved ones has always been a bit of a challenge, and a rather uncomfortable venture for me. Don't get me wrong; i respect the dead, their memories, cultural rites, and the need of those who are left behind to mourn and keep mementos. But rather than those cold, hard stones that serve to reinforce the knowledge that my loved ones are nothing more than rotting bones buried beneath the ground, i would rather remember them in their most lived-in moments. An old shirt. A nostalgic scent of a certain perfume. Their favourite cake. A photo taken from our last vacation. A journal entry depicting crazy things that we've done together. The song that they used to set as their ringtone.

I mean, burial is the last celebration of life. It's where i sent off the death with one last bit of fanfare, congratulate them for doing a great job in having survived for this long, thank them for all the memories that they've given to me, and wish them luck on their next adventure. A fond farewell, as to speak. I've always love parties, and this one is no exception. But what comes after, those tombstones... honestly, they're depressing to look at. It brought to mind memories nearing their death, and oftentimes, not the prettiest kind. It spoke of the one who was the life of a party slowly wasting away on a hospital bed. Of drugs and depression. Of frustation. Of helplessness. Of suffering, pain, breathing difficulties, and splattered blood.

Being a rather sentimental person, and those thoughts certainly didn't help me to move on. I often decline an invitation to visit a grave outside of burial rites. I'd rather mourn and honour those who have passed in a more cheerful, lively way. This choice..earned me the label of being heartless sometimes, for refusing to visit the grave of someone close to my heart. It's easy to brush them off, but sometimes, it still stings when they implied that i didn't care about my loved ones who've passed on. Perhaps it is a selfish choice; childish, even. But still, it begs into a question: for whose benefit do we mourn, except for ourselves?



Oh well