Church of Euthanasia

The One Commandment:
"Thou shalt not procreate"

The Four Pillars:
suicide · abortion
cannibalism · sodomy

Human Population:

Snuff It #4

I Wood

by Rev. Chris Korda

Make yourself as comfortable as possible. Okay, now close your eyes, relax, and try to imagine yourself dying. It's bound to happen eventually, right? So try to imagine yourself dying. It could be suddenly or gradually, by chance or by design, far in the future, or tomorrow, but imagine yourself passing into the twilight world between life and death. Your body is letting go, growing heavy, the life force is passing out of it, and finally your body is completely, irrevocably, dead. Now there's a ceremony, a wake, and your friends and family are gathered around your body, expressing their love for you, honoring you, wishing you well. Meanwhile, your detailed instructions for the disposal of your body have mysteriously disappeared, and so, due to circumstances beyond anyone's control, your body is buried, naked, without casket or shroud, in the forest.

Time is passing. Your body is decomposing, rotting, breaking down into the simple substances that sustain organic life. The worms and beetles are chewing, burrowing into you, digesting you, I know it's creepy, but don't worry; you can't feel it. They're just playing their role, doing what they do best: helping the Earth recycle you. After a lifetime of eating, consuming the riches of the Earth, now the Earth is eating you. You're part of the food chain after all, because while your body's nutrients are slowly dissolving into the soil, they're being absorbed by the roots of a tree.

Now try to imagine that nameless part of yourself that survives every stage of death. Beyond your ego, beyond your consciousness; your highest self, your spirit. Try to imagine that while your body is composting, feeding the tree's roots, your spirit is also passing into the tree. And slowly, very slowly, you begin to have sensation again. New, unfamiliar sensation. Where your feet used to be, you have roots that sink deep into the warm, moist Earth. And where your poor, aching spine used to be, you have a thick trunk, flexible but incredibly strong, and covered with bark instead of skin. And instead of arms and a head, you have a profusion of branches, ending in thousands of delicate twigs instead of fingers. And your twigs are thrust out in every direction, towards the heavens, towards the sun, and instead of hair, they're covered with tender, green leaves.

Feel the warm sun beating down on your leaves. Breathe. Breathe with your leaves. In...out. In...out. Your leaves are a million tiny lungs. Feel how they ripple in the breeze. Your branches are swaying, gently swaying, back and forth, back and forth, and the sap is running up and down your trunk, carrying nutrients from the soil up to the branches and leaves. Birds are resting on you, and insects scurry around on your bark, but they move so fast you barely notice them. Time has slowed down for you. You're not going anywhere.

Day becomes twilight, and then night. The stars come out, and the moon rises. Feel the other trees, all around you. You're one tree, among many other trees, in the forest. Hear the sound of the forest. Animals, birds, insects, singing the song of the Earth. You're singing too, with a deep, slow sound, all the trees singing together. Mist creeps along the ground, and the stars fade, as dawn approaches. The song is louder now, and your leaves are wet with dew. The sun creeps over the horizon, and into the sky.

Days pass. Weeks pass, and the air gets colder. Your leaves are dry and brittle, and the wind blows them away. Now the ground is hard, and ice covers everything. Your sap thickens, the snow lies heavy on your branches, and the forest is still. In the stillness of winter, all along your twigs and branches, tiny buds are forming, under the ice.

As the years pass, you grow bigger, and bigger still. Your roots crack open boulders, birds make nests in your branches, and animals hide in the caverns of your trunk. Beneath your roots, the flesh of your old body is gone, and even the bones crumble, but your spirit lives on.

Sometimes when I watch TV, I stop being myself, and oh, I'm a star of a series, or, or, I have my own talk show, or I'm on the news, getting out of a limo, going some place important. All I ever have to do is be famous! People watch me, and they love me, and I never, never grow old, and I never die.

-John Carpenter's "They Live"

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