Anecdote – Reporting on my death

Anecdote – Reporting on my death

Posted on  by Opher


Reporting on my death

My death is not real.

I do not know when, how or what form it will take.

I have no beliefs of an after-life. That seems too human a concept to me. My death will be the end of my consciousness. It will be similar to going to sleep. I will simply not wake.

My mind has no concept of the oblivion during sleep when my consciousness no longer operates. It is a little death. There is no sadness and grief in that state for the person concerned. There is only nothingness. The time evaporates. It is empty. The sadness of death only comes with contemplation. We torment ourselves needlessly. The sadness is in the loss of this peephole into the universe. For the dead there is no perception, no sense of loss, no suffering. They simply no longer exist.

Instead of dwelling on death we should be celebrating the wonder of our lives. For this flash of time we have a peephole into a wondrous universe. It is brief, measured in seconds, and it is miraculous. We should maximise that the experience. It will not come again.

I have enjoyed it greatly. I have filled it with as much as I could pack in.

That is a life worth living.

I know I have been lucky. I have loved and been loved. I have read, written, travelled and made friends. I have tasted the best and tested the boundaries.

I shall have few regrets.

My death will be a sadness. Of that I am sure. It will be a sadness to me that I can no longer extend my vocabulary of delights, I can no longer share with the people I love and my peephole will close. It will be a sadness for people who love me.

But no regrets. We have shared and loved enough.

My funeral must be a celebration. I am writing this on a boat travelling to South America. The adventure continues. That is what must be acknowledged. If my life had been empty and mundane that might be a different matter. But it has been full. I am replete. I have already lived a hundred lives and loved as much. What more could any man ask?

Yet still there are decisions.

I vacillate between leaving my body to medical science as my brave mother did, or being buried in a wicker basket so that my flesh may return to the cycle of life. No lead lined coffin for me. I want the living things to have their fill. I have loved my biology.

I have chosen my music well – Little Richard – Rip it Up and Roy Harper – When an Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease are the two essentials. They’ll be lots of photos of me and I’ll write a piece myself. It’ll be good to talk from beyond the grave. I might even record something. No doubt a few other people might want to say things about me.

I need to plan it a bit more thoroughly.

Strange and ironic– that I now, planning a funeral, I need to flesh out the bones.

The thought of my funeral makes me smile.

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Chainsaws and Gun Shots

Chainsaws and Gun Shots

Chainsaws and gunshots

Chainsaws and gunshots

Saw-teeth and bullets

Bangs and buzzes

Bangs and buzzes

Tearing into flesh




Opher 17.2.2021

I walk up my hill into the green manufacturing industry known as the countryside to the sound of multiple bangs and the chunter of chainsaws.

Every single day I hear the sound of shots.

The green fields have been blanket bombed with pesticide but even so, if anything dares to try to cling on to life it is blasted to hell.

I can hear the chainsaws attacking another tree. There are not too many of those left – little oasis in the green desert.

I’m walking in nature and listening to the relentless sound of death.

Killing Time Before Eternity

Killing Time Before Eternity

We’re all killing time

Before eternity kicks back in.

On a brief holiday

Within this flesh and skin.

We came from nowhere

And we’re heading that way again.

Fortunately, in between,

We evolved eyes and brain.

We see, we feel,

We experience wonders all around

Standing on a spinning planet

With feet upon the ground.

We are incredibly lucky

To be conscious and aware

Of all the majestic wonders

Around us, everywhere.

We’re on a short break

From the void of nothing.

Staying here for a short while

In the realm of something.

It’s a mere speck

In the eye of eternity,

But we should grasp it

Most heartily.

For this time is all we have

To wonder and enjoy.

With all the enthusiasm

We can muster and deploy.

Opher 27.12.2020

Life is so short.

Experience is so limited.

But we have eyes to see, ears to hear, tongues to taste, hands to feel, noses to smell and hearts to love.

For a short while we have been afforded the privilege to experience the wonder of a whole universe.

I am determined to make the most of this brief window.

Every second is precious.

Poetry – Unseen Wounds

Unseen Wounds

The wounds unseen

                Bleed into the mind.

Some will bleed forever

                Others leave a deep scar.

Lives have disappeared,

                Homes smashed.

Possessions lost,

                Stolen by a Russian Czar.

What help can we give

                To those who have

                                Been hurt so much?

Who mourn their loved ones?

Who can heal

                Wounds cut so deep

                                Into the tissues of brains?

Where do we find the funds?

Opher – 26.4.2022

The physical damage is obvious – the destroyed houses, the blown up schools and hospitals, bleeding, broken bodies and heaps of corpses tossed into mass graves.

The physical destruction wrought by war is devastating.

What is not so obvious are the wounds cut into peoples’ minds.

Those grieving for destroyed lives, for loved ones killed or maimed, for what should have been. Those who have lost so much.

What cannot be seen are the traumas created by witnessing the horrors, seeing death, seeing the dead bodies of those you have loved.

These images cannot be erased. These fears and grief cannot be comforted away.

These ae the injuries that destroy minds and last a lifetime.

War creates trauma.

Poetry – A False Sense of Security

A False Sense of Security

Once we were safe and secure,

Like no generation before us,

Living in a false bubble of unreality,

Where nothing changed

And we could not be harmed.

But that bubble burst

On the spikes of a virus

And our comfort blanket was snatched away.

Pain and death are but a breath


We are standing on air.

Reality intruded.

For it was always thus.

It is merely that the risk is now clear.

Opher – 16.4.2020

We have lived through a golden age where Death was a stranger. We had our antibiotics, vaccinations and the plagues of the past were safely locked away in the cupboard.

That bubble was burst when the Covid virus started up the modern-day plague.

We haven’t had to suffer siblings and relatives succumbing to disease. We were safe from death.

Death was kept hidden from us. It happened in hospitals. It mainly affected the old or the unlucky.

Not so now.

Death comes stalking in a handshake and a sneeze.

The modern plague has reared its head. Life is once again precarious.

Poetry – The Winter of Democracy

The Winter of Democracy

Living in the winter

                Of democracy

As factions stifle voices.

Dead leaves

                Of hope

Blow among the garbage.

Fascism erupts

                From the

Rotting corpse.

Conspiracy replaces truth.

Certainty replaces quest.



                                As a black

And white scripture.

Those not with us

                Are always wrong.


                Comes with a gun.


                                                With a fist.

Freedom is a prison

                Whose walls

                                Are closing in.

It’s the winter of democracy

                Lies and fake news


For the fools.


Watching the news as the Tories desperately spin the story. Red meat is thrown to the gullible. Throats are cut. Scapegoats selected.

Careers are ruined.

Anything but the truth.

The lust for power rules.

Operation Save The Big Dog is in full swing – Lie, obfuscate, cover, lie some more.

All singing from the same script.

If you say it often enough……..

Over in the States Trump trots out the same lies, holds the same rallies, cons the same people.

He spills his lies, conspiracy and spin and the fools lap it up.


Who cares for democracy??

This is the business of money and power.

There are no rules.

There is not a shred of truth.

Poetry – Life is a losing game

Life is a losing game

Life is a losing game.

No matter how great the joy

It always ends in pain.

But I wouldn’t swap it for anything.

With a look towards infinity.

It’s got to be better than nothing.

So when we’re all gone

Remember it was all worthwhile –

We didn’t get it wrong.

For though life is a losing game

To live, share and laugh

Makes it worth all the pain.

Opher – 25.10.2019

No matter how well you live your life it always ends in death, tears and loss.

But while we are alive we need to live it to the full. That makes it all worthwhile!

Death where is thy sting?