Marx, Karl (1818-1883) "Go on, get out. Last words are for fools who haven't said enough.""

It's funny how death makes everything... simpler in a way; as each individual is subject to the inevitable demise -- the great blender of our ends combined -- one somehow just finds themselves kneeling or cowering before its wake. Humbling isn't it?

I find it so because in the end, everyone dies and everyone after that will have the same fate. They will be mourned, remembered and their stories will be passed on until a future comes where you just... won't be mentioned anymore and only then will your demise come full circle.

An autopsy is a lot like that. I've watched enough CSI shows, Autopsy reports and Late Night documentaries to give me a general idea of how it goes and one thing I found interesting is that, the dead person in question is not treated as a person per se but as a dead body. That way, the process of figuring out what actually killed him/her is less prone to bias or guilt as well as eases one's anxiety of cutting a human being apart.

A human being is basically just a ticking clockwork of meatbags strung together. What makes it special is this unexplainable thing we'd call a mind. Now, a mind is different from a brain; you can see brain but you can't see a mind -- a mind is weird that way. You know everyone human has one, even the insane have some sort of mind hence the term 'out of their minds'. But when you die, suddenly, the mind isn't there anymore. You aren't thinking or feeling anything at all cuz well, you're dead so what's left? Well, the meatbag is left -- those fatty bits for the coroner to take a look at and once all questions are answered, you're basically wormfood.

It's kind of sad to think of the people passing by you as ticking clockworks but the fact is, they are until you actually make the effort to make someone out of somebody. In this way, you have given a face, a name and a mindful to the machination -- frankly speaking, you gave it life. Think about it, we don't really give a mindful to the strangers around us and yet they affect us in so many ways -- the people who clean up after us for example.

Things like that makes death seem like a quaint little soiree we all agreed to go to on a Friday night. Everyone will somehow, someday end up there and on that day, we're all pretty much strangers to everyone else.

It would be funny then to entertain the idea of doing your own autopsy because at the very end of the sentence, you'd have to say that you were just like everyone else because in death, you have lost your face and while some would commend, mourn and remember you, they will come to the same fate one day and memories of you would have been taken to the grave. We're all pretty much that ticking clockwork of human organs as I've described some lines before and yes, we're all going to end up as wormfood anyways but then you have to look at the bright side -- knowing this, would I settle for a life of being a faceless machination or perhaps change things so that I can rightfully say, when the time comes, that I have lived a life?

To each his own I guess. We choose how we are to be remembered; which is why great men and women in history never truly die as their accounts and stories live on in the succeeding generations as an aforementioned reminder that, indeed, life doesn't have to end in one's last breath. Death can do that sometimes, it's just a matter of perspective.

On quiet days, you can hear her voice louder than the raindrops and she'd make it all worthwhile as she'd talk to you about the simple pleasures of just living a life; like a rainbow after the rain or the smell of hotdogs on a bun -- with everything on it, if I may add cuz those are the best kind. Makes your life feel more than just a heap of whipstitched organs doesn't it?