When I first learned that one day, the sun will expand and engulf our world in solar fire, I was distraught. For years, I was terrified of the mere thought of it.
But as I grew, I thought, barring a sci-fi apocalypse scenario, it was probably unlikely it'll happen to me, or my descendants or even their descendants' descendants.
The fact that we were more likely to be wiped out by nuclear fire or a rising tide gave me comfort. I had finally made peace with the concept.
It was about some time after I was hit by that stray drunk driver.
Next thing I knew, I was in a dark, cramped box while the last of the mourners' footsteps went away. I kicked and cried and I screamed and I shrieked,bloodying shins and fingers.
Willing, hoping against hope that someone would realise that there was a living person buried alive in here and I would be rescued.
That was centuries ago. Maybe a millennium. I should've really noticed the embalming fluid way earlier than I did.
My coffin that I once thought a prison has broken down long back, leaving me assailed on all sides by dirt. Makes me miss the leg room I had.
The worms and germs have stripped me of my flesh and left me nothing but fragments of bone.
And yet, here I am. Still awake. Still aware.
So as I "lay" there, I think back to the time when I was still scared of a hungry sun, wondering if I'll hopefully be "gone" by the time.
But then, if I'm not, I guess I'll be grateful for the change of scenery.