From the day we are born, certain expectations are made about our lives. We are raised by parents, planning for the future, then we go to school and our teachers plan our progression through education. We reach a certain point in our lives where we take over our development and control it to plan for employment. Then we spend our years planning for retirement, by which point we plan for our death. Somewhere in the middle we look after our parents as they reach the end, but ultimately we spend our lives planning for our own demise. It’s a depressing thought, that we spend our lives planning for an inevitable death. Animals often go away to die, their siblings long since gone; prospering in other parts of their habitat. They die alone, on their own, with only themselves for company, through choice, which is a comfort. For we only have ourselves to look to when those celluloid images pass our eyes, reminding us of times since past.
We, humans, try to surround ourselves with people; spreading the passing like salt around the table; advertising our deaths to the masses in family notice sections and obituaries. Families, who maybe haven’t seen each other for years all migrate to the place of death, offer anecdotes of the afformentioned’s life around a room full of people, looking forward to a free sandwich and a pork pie. We’ve all done it. We’ve all eaten at a dead person’s expense. We have attended to mourn the passing of an individual, but when boiled down, a person’s life; the culmination of 70 odd years planning, from birth, to school, to job to retirement, to death is a half-eaten egg sandwich and a pork pie. Fuck.
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