In the beginning.

In the beginning, I wanted to become a mortician, but my dad was aggressively against it.

I guess it was the thought of dead bodies.

No one really sees the beauty in things they don’t understand.

His resistance to my choice and my family’s lack of support made me crave it even more

and so, I became excited about death.

I loved the dead; and the news of someone dead excited and consumed me.

I wanted to be a part of the wake, to plan the funeral,

I wanted to be present when the body was being prepared.

I would spend hours writing eulogies, even for persons who were still alive. 

I would present it with such eloquence and poise, like I was in a speech contest.

But then everyone became concerned and instead of supporting a passion; they said I was suicidal.

So secretly, I continued to admire the bodies laying so peacefully in the caskets.

They were always well dressed and carefully cleaned even though they would soon decay. 

Once I was completely barred from going to funerals or being told that someone had died, I started

having nightmares and in the end my own love started to scare me.

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