“When you shiver, it means someone is walking over your grave.” Your future grave. That’s what my grandma tells me.
I don’t believe in graves. What a waste of space. Bodies building our foundation we stand and live on. Macabre.
But its the macabre I can’t get enough of. It’s what gets me excited and out of bed in the mornings. “What if something strange happens today?”
Let’s distill this. It’s not the grave or even death. Its the unknown, intangible, unlikely, obscene sense of familiarity robbed that is what shrouds our perceptions to the limits in which they reside.
I want my ashes scattered over Kensington Gardens in London. I want the ducks to swim among them and grass to grow over them. I want to be a part of a place where my soul resides. I stepped my foot on that soil and like a magnet, I’ve never left that pull. My fibre belongs there. All over that ground. I wouldn’t be still in the ground, I’d be allowed movement and continual exploration. I would get picked up and stepped on by many people and become a part of them.
And, consequently, I shiver a lot.
