Whenever I bite the dust, I want to be buried at sea. I want my ashes to be thrown into the waves and carried off to faraway places about which I’ve only ever been able to dream. I want my ashes to become part of the earth so that even though my body may be dead and gone, my spirit will forever live on. I may never truly be dead. A part of me may become sand and sink to the bottom of the ocean and provide a space for coral to grow on; another part of me may get carried off to shore somewhere and get picked up by a bird so that I may one day become part of the dirt that fertilizes a tree. As long as all these different parts of me keep sustaining living creatures, I can never fully be dead. I will be alive in every tree, in every seashell, in every animal, in every human that eats or breathes.
My only dream in life, thus far, is to travel, and it’s something that I’ve never been able to do much of. Hopefully that will change when I get older, and I’ll eventually make it out of the United States. So maybe my dreams of traveling have overclouded what I want done with my body after I die, but even if I do manage to be able to travel more when I get out of college and am able to afford it, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to visit everywhere that I desperately want to visit. Imagine: at least some part of me will be able to visit some of the places I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid, and that is good enough for me.
Being placed in a casket six feet under a pile of dirt doesn’t hold any interest in me. In fact, it’s like one of my worst, most terrifying nightmares come to life. After death, I’d rather be able to feel myself spread across the earth, traveling and adventuring in ways I never got to while actually living – compared to being inside a wooden box from the day I die until, well, eternity. Because, really, when given the option, why would I want my body’s final resting place to be in a wooden box when, instead, I can have infinite more options until the end of time?