In the fourth dimension of time, a man’s life is but a spark in the dark from a wet lighter, or a match blown out in the wind. The great pharaohs of Egypt recognized that the scope of existence is far greater than the world as it is, although they saw the greater vista of existence as extending in to the metaphysical realm of the afterlife. My impact on the general scheme of things shall last long after I die, though. In a way, my afterlife is the afterimage I will burn on this world, and the psyche of its inhabitants.
In my lifetime, I shall oversee the construction of a ziggurat. A majestic pyramid of finely etched titanium, towering thousands of feet in the air, will loom over the bustling urban hive of Detroit, a potent symbol of both my commitment to my own longevity and a clever satire on the amount of effort and resources people spend on massive titanium pyramids. Deep within the metal sarcophagus, my body shall lie sealed in an airtight chamber. My embalmed corpse shall be staring directly up at a larger timer on the ceiling with big red numbers, because it is hard for the dead to observe what is right in front of them. Ten years the clock will count down, and on the tenth anniversary of my incarceration a deep rumbling with disturb the weary citizens of Detroit. The ground will shake, glass will shatter, and temporary anarchy will herald the ultimate purpose of that great iron mountain towering over the common man. Amid the chaos, the structure at the epicenter of the quake will tip its hand; Massive rocket boosters will engage and lift the entire structure out of the ground and in to the stratosphere. By the time exhaust from the titanic rockets dissipates, my own personal Tower of Babel will be a point of light in the distance.
News shall spread worldwide of the sudden and surprising liftoff of the sepulcher. Conspiracies will quickly be formed, and ridiculous theories shall come soon after. The launch of the man-made metal mountain eventually will become a piece of world history, iconic in the grand course of things. Millions of T-shirts with the silhouette of my rocket-myd will fly off of retail shelves, and in a suburb of Toronto, 4 teenagers will start a short-lived band called "Mr. Ryan's Space Rapture," although there will be some confusion among the group as to whether their name comes from the majestic ziggurocket or the game Bioshock. Millennia pass, records of the event will be destroyed, and skewed. Within a scant few thousand years, the space pyramid will become legend . Legends shall beget stories, shall beget fables, beget New York Times bestsellers, beget legends again. Eventually, the pyramiggurocketower fades from all sentient thought. Within the relatively (very relatively) short duration of several eons, all trace of the great ziggurat is gone.
During this time, however, the metal meteor will have orbited the stars on a solitary pilgrimage, eventually coming home to a civilization that has no previous knowledge of it. When a large flaming mass hurtles in to Earth’s atmosphere and hurtles in to the ground, leaving a gaping crater, it will have a reception of mixed fear and awe; a tremendous time-lapsed gift from God. The tomb becomes an almost mythical object. Upon investigation and exploration through its vast galleries and pitfalls, the searchers/looters will find my corpse, perfectly preserved, with a great, big, smug, rictus smile.
F*ck scattering ashes.
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