In less than a month I will leave my twenties and enter my thirties.
I’m not really one to get upset over the advancement of my age, as it’s inevitable, leaving me with no recourse to alter the outcome. I’m going to get older, and one day in the (hopefully) distant future I’m going to die. I’ll leave behind everything I’ve ever known, including the ones who have loved me most, and those I have (hopefully) loved adequately in return. Everything I have acquired in this life, every possession, every dollar and cent, will be dispersed amongst those who knew me best, and hopefully some who never knew me before but would benefit from something I had to give. I’ll be buried in a box large enough to fit my body, and there will perhaps be some weird doily clothe adorning the inners of my coffin. There will be makeup to keep my (hopefully) oldened face from giving any indication that my soul has already left my body, and therefore allow my loved ones to say their goodbyes to a corpse that makes them minimally uncomfortable. I may decide instead to go the route of cremation, saving my family the expenses of a coffin and burial arrangement. Perhaps everyone will be gathered around my ashes housed in an ornate urn or vase (I hope they pronounce it “vahz”, because I’d like my friends to either be pretentious or British). They’ll come to the shores of the ocean or cliff top to scatter my ashes; not because that’s how I wanted it to be, but because that’s the most dramatic way to scatter ashes, and I’m certainly one for drama. There will hopefully be a slight gust of wind as the ashes of my once proud and athletic body pour forth, carrying them out into the horizon. A paper lantern will float off into the sunset sky with bagpipes playing in the background, even though I’m neither Japanese nor Scottish. My loved ones will continue to mourn me for a few weeks, intermittently gathering for recollections and sharing of memories. They’ll laugh about the silly and stupid things I’ve done, and perhaps remind themselves of the powerful words I once spoke into their lives at just the right moments. They’ll avoid all the unfortunate things I’ve done and said to them, ignoring the pain I’ve once caused, because thankfully it makes people uncomfortable to speak ill of the dead. There will be a hearty collective laugh when speaking of my antics, with a subtle dying out at the end that turns into a breathy sigh, and someone saying, “I’m going to miss him.” Then they’ll go back to work and their everyday lives, occasionally remembering me on the anniversary of my death with a social media shoutout. I will one day be relegated to a Facebook status or Twitter mention, and then everyone else will die themselves.
In conclusion, my 30s should be fun.