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  • Writer's picturecolumbiahillen

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, and 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 Erigal 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.


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