That Which Is Holy

Funerals.

What a spectacular parody on life they are. This fumbling attempt to through the correct tunnels and ways pay respects to someone's life, their deed during their time in this world. Churches. Psalms. Coffins. Rows of people with their bent heads, speeches and songs of words, that are just words, no more. How come they can't say to each other, what they want the priest to say? How come they can't say to the dead, what they want the priest to say? No, it should be out there, spoken by the right, high and loud for all the hear. Pitiful.
Grief cannot be handled this way, can it? Explain it to me someone. Grief cannot be shared this way. Grief cannot be eased by displaying it on the stage of the altar of Christ. Grief cannot be understood this way, can it? Explain it, because it is beyond me.
I understand tradition and ceremony; they grant safety in a world of chaos, sincerety in a world of lies, and strength in a world of weakness. They are holy. But I cannot understand why they must be displayed.
A rap star swearing to avenge the death of his brother in front of his crew, this I understand, and respect. A king's coffin followed by the masses of his people. This is not burial, this is for the living, statements for the world and thus justified to be public.
But funerals. Especially for those who never believed in the religion they still insist on being buried in. This ridicule of sacred things, this joke of a ceremony! Relatives, each wanting their own thing, each having their own ceremony in their head, but still playing along with the game of intelligent beings. Compromises. Pretty words.

Grief cannot be handled this way.

Give me the funeral I deserve, when I one day return to the source of all things. No words. No social games. No outings of pretended religion, no traditions made for tradition's sake. Give me silence. Give me the whisper of the winds and song of water. Give me your thoughts, your grief. Sit down and share your memories, but do not for a second think you can share grief. Give me your tradition, your ceremony, that which is holy to you. A drop of blood. A tune whispered in your head. A parchment of poem in my grave. A prayer to whatever god you follow.

Give me your respect when I go. No bloody funeral.