Thoughts after a visit to the cemetery

Today I went with my dog, Ketchup, to the cemetery nearby. I'm not a gothic or anything like that, but in my neighborhood, there is not much nature or open spaces. The cemetery is the one exception -- a vast and peaceful green land, perfect for long walks, scattered thoughts, and occasional meditative states. Something essential for my mental health.

I turned off the podcasts and made an effort to pacify my mind. Show some respect for the place. Listened to the birds, saught refuge when it started to rain. Ketchup is anxious, always pulling the leash, but walking among the graves seems to make him quieter. Eventually, I started to meditate on the grounds I was walking on. Walking over people. This is not a fancy cemetery with large cement tombs. In other places I visited, ostentatious displays of after-death economic status are common (and undoubtedly very interesting).

Here, everyone shares the same, simple headstone layout. A small piece of black marble with limited space for a description, almost always containing just name, date of birth, and death.

A few headstones contain photos in tiles, with custom phrases and affirmations ("Tragedy and comedy are one -- the face of life!", it says). An attempt, maybe, to negate the end, defy the inevitable decay. There's a certain life-affirming beauty in that stubbornness. Eventually, of course, decay always wins, and those that are forever gone (in their current bodily representation, at least...) must cede space for what relentlessly remains to be.

One day, I will also become food for the plants, and someone will walk over me as well. That thought brings me peace.