In an old house in an old room

When I die, I want to be clothed in black and look stunning. Afterwards, I want my body cremated and my ashes scattered — wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere. But before all that, I want my closest friends to read their eulogy. I will sit in front or in a corner, and listen to our ancient stories. Every word of it.

I want to know how they would remember me.
I want to know if I’ve been good, over all, and if I have been worthy of this existence.
Like a regular human being, in the end, I need to be validated.

For now, let me lay on this bed in an old house in an old room. There is a certain tranquility in watching the low sun passed between the small openings of the capiz window. There is incarnation. There is finding again.

There is hope.
No matter how tiny and bleak and almost impossible it looks,
it exists.


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