The cemetery symbol

Cemetery, of what purpose is that piece of land? Is it for the dead, but of what use is to them, the atoms, the molecules, that once constituted a conscious being? None whatsoever. The cemetery is there to serve us, the still living. The tomb stones, the raised structures, flowers, visitors; they are there to numb the pain of living with the knowledge, the premonition, of our own demise, departure, into the void; by giving us a toy of reassurance, that we would, too, be remembered, honored and visited; as if the rectangular, concrete structure is us. Is it too hard to imagine, while visiting a grave, while attending a funeral, ourselves, switching places with the dead, as an act of mental simulation, the imagination? The fear and panic of total oblivion; the cemetery, it pats us reassuringly, that it would not be the case. The delusions that we erect, opiates self administered. People would come and talk to us, pouring out their hearts, of how badly life is treating them after us. It is there to remind us of our refusal to let our grip go, mentally, while we live and observe others die, right and left, of life and living; refusal to accept our oblivion. It is the final symbol of our narcissistic love for life, ourselves, our refusal to accept our mortality. It is a placebo for the slowly dying, death being the chronic disease of life, parasite to the experience of living.