Can I Convince You?

Can I convince you
that it is a good idea to want my last words to be, "I used to be a thing"?

It means so little, and yet so much.

I could ask on and on, what /is/ a "thing"? What makes a thing a thing? And what am I? What makes me, me? And what is being, and what was I being? And how? And what does it mean?

It is personal, and something I remember well. Strangely. I don't know why that phrase said to to me (perhaps once, perhaps a few more times) remained with me days after. Nor why I am able to recall it now, hundreds of days later. Nor why it contains so much lightness of nature in my mind.

It is positively absurd, in much the way life defies meaning.

It doesn't try to be more than it is, it makes a simple statement. It can mean more to you, if you so wish. It is surely unusual and contains meaning at least for me, and maybe objectively. And that, really is what I find most of my life to be about. That strange interplay of what has meaning to me, and what might actually have meaning. For others, for the universe, for time, for reality.

I laughed. I laughed at the pure idea of it. I laughed of the context of trying to communicate. I laughed at the success and the failure. I laughed at being alive. I laughed at the instance and the echoing truth that applies everywhere. I laughed at me, I laughed at the universe, and I laughed at where they become one.