1979. Afghanistan.

 

          Is not true that when you die you see light and you feel a warm. Not even that there is a sunshine that guides you to that fountain of light, and then you suddenly disappear. You are just alive in a moment. Then you see dark. Then you don’t feel. Then you die. I saw dark. My hands were one above the other on my chest. Under my nails there were kindling buried in my dried skin. The scrapes of my hands were straight opened leading the blood scape of my pathetic and miserable body. The dust that covered my eyes would let me barely see the dark.

 

          It was summer. I was on my house. My dead mom slept in her vase. I had lunch. Suddenly I was buried.

 

          Maybe it was a heart attack or perhaps it was a bomb from one of the big black Russian birds that were flying around looking for their daily meal.

 

          Anyway I was there. I still remember how my respiratory tract were closed just like the box I was buried in. I tried to move my foot but somehow i could even feel it. Just like my other 94 % of my body. Desperately I started to scratch the wood that surrenders me without noticing the wrinkled that buried under my nails. I took a deep breath inhaling nothing more than dust. I can’t actually remember anything else.

 

          Isn’t that pathetic? Being buried alive... Imagine yourself there... What a miserable death right?

 

          Ding as a police man or a fireman doing your work, that’s cool. But ding because your family has no hope for your life... That’s stupid.

 

          Mike was a recognized business man with his fancy cars and her sexy wife. He died of stress in his kitchen when he received the message from a client that refused to buy his products.. I remember her wife that cried a river and then dry her tears with the greens saved in the bank. Or what about the 30 years old virgin woman that got stuck in her seat belt and she was crushed by a lost car drive by a 15 year old vodka guy that had just hook up with an entire high school.

 

          I love being dead, but my family can’t understand that. I can see them now, pouring their miserable tears over my grave. The funny of all this is that my dad asked for me to be buried on a grave since she thinks I actually would prefer that. He might have deduced it because of all my critics to the religion. He is always wrong. However, I have being buried next to my mom, a great woman that understood the difference between heart and brain, as not many people does. You feel, think and live with your brain. The heart just pumps. She was the only person that refused to cure soviet bastards while everybody was pathetically trying to save their lives, those lives that killed our people, in those times stacked one above the other on a corner of the small room. She died with a bullet on her heart.

 

          I remember when I was a kid and I use to play with my green plastic soldiers that were attached one to the other by a small thread, so I would never lose any of them, just like the soldiers marching towards the killer. The silently walk and walk, guided by the captain, at the mercy of the king, the toy manufacture; with no hope, just following the person that they see next to them.