Morning

I don’t want to be buried.

I could not bear to listen to the pipes go quiet and the words, spoken and unspoken, grow farther and farther away. I could not bear feel closer and closer to that silence that only earth can offer.

I hear them talking about the beautiful day it was when I died and I remember how I used to take them for granted, how I never looked up to the sky long enough to see it, how I did not open my eyes to let all the light in, to fill me, so I can switch it on now, when I need it most.

That’s why I need the power of fire all around me, to feel I am one with the light. And seep slowly, with the rain, into the silence of the earth.

On a beautiful sunny day in Donegal, pipes were heard on Cnoc Fola. They lifted the soul up, beyond Bloody Foreland, beyond Errigal and Muckish and beyond Tory Island.

I never met him, I did not even know his name, but my tears just burst out of me when I suddenly felt one with all those souls – the mourning and the mourned ones, in the same time.

They say we must befriend death. I say we must feel one with death to get a grasp of how much alive we are, how there is only one heart beating and it suffers, we know, even if we admit that or not.