Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer

by Cyrus Mistry

I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling this, and don’t deserve any special credit for it. It’s probably something about the way our brains are wired that makes us humans crave this grand design—some of us, like my father, even believed they had grasped, and harnessed it—that there is some divine formula or secret equation, that connects every phenomenon of existence, every shimmering facet of life and death.

elaborate systems of belief have been concocted and espoused over the centuries by man merely to buttress this sad need for meaning; indeed to make life’s transience bearable.

Because, if the dead are really and truly dead, null and void, snuffed out without a trace—then everything we grow up believing in is a lie.