Decay

I find decay fascinating. Not the decay of flesh, skeleton in the grass, sinew and muscle and malodour but decomposition of concrete, a headless statue in the grass, nature taking back what is hers. Listen to her breathe. What is the word for leaves rustling in the wind? Psithurism. A dead word. 

***

It's a Sunday afternoon and I am the only one here. The cemetery rolls with the hills, green and cracked and quiet. Quiet? No, peaceful. There is a highway on the other side of the trees, beyond the rows of crosses and weather-beaten tombstones, and even here I can hear the dull rumble of vehicles on asphalt. 

***

I find decay fascinating. Not the decay of people, of old flowers and funeral homes, but of ideals. Beliefs and faith can unravel so easily and once I start I can't stop picking at the seams. They are consumed if held too close to the flame. Stench. Burnt plastic and youth. I used to believe I don't deserve happiness. There is a spade in my backpack. The ground here is soft. 

***

I don't know why I'm here. I don't know anyone buried here. My ancestors are scattered across continents and we eat the dirt of far-away places. Anonymity feels good. I read the names carved in stone, read "beloved mother" and "taken too soon" and take photos of the lichen and make friends with the ants and listen to my heart beat. Some of the slabs have cracked open. I can't see inside. I think the underside of the concrete must not exist.

***

I find decay fascinating. Not the decay of lives, of flame and death and endings, but the decay of myself. Morbidity is overrated. Sometimes I stare at my hand and wonder how I am here, how I am still here. How many times have I died and risen? A phoenix trapped in her own blazing incarnation, destined to breathe in the dust of my own funeral pyre. Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.