All of Them Dancing

For about two years now I have lived across the street from a graveyard. I walk passed it every time I go to the bus stop and never give it a second thought. I fear death does not affect me anymore. I suppose it never really has. I ignore the graveyard and hop on the bus trying to convince myself of my own existence. Numb to life. Numb to death. This evening was different and I was thinking rather differently. I got off the bus and I just watched the graveyard. It was perhaps the only thing I had seen alive in a very long time. It could have just been the fog, or the shadows of those infinite trees but I saw them.
All of them, dancing, a freedom dance.
Not one of them wakes daily to the deafening noise of an alarm, forcing them to wake only so they can stumbled into a job that makes one feel less and less like and person and more and more like a disease. The monotony of this thing we call life causes our skin to fall from our faces and our ideas to drain from our heads until we are nothing but machines, working for someone we will probably never meet, who signs our paychecks and rapes our will, bi-weekly.
All of them, dancing, a freedom dance.
 Somehow six feet under seems a hell of a lot more comforting than five feet and four inches above. I move not forwards and not back, I just move because I am told to move. I wake because I am told to wake. The comfort of eternal sleep and endlessness. Death is to become new. To become your mother's tears, to become your lost loves' truest regret, to become potent in the thoughts of those who knew you and those who pretend to have known you. You have to die to become new.
All of them, dancing, a freedom dance.
I want to join the dance. I want to be free like they are. I want to be careless and young. I want to be transparent and untouchable. I want to rid myself of the physical and material as they have. I cross the street and climb the fence into the graveyard. The dance has stopped and I have crashed the party with my pathetic and seemingly meaningless existence. It is so quiet it hurts my ears and I feel incredibly and unforgivably alone. For that, I am thankful. I sit in the damp soil next to a giant stone cross. There I am, fallen from grace being ridiculed by the perpendicular lines. My grandmother would be so disappointed in her fallen angel. I wonder now if she has danced the dance of freedom. I guess I may never know. It is a curious thing, sitting amongst the dead and decaying. You think it would be reaffirming to know that you are and they are no longer, but it's not. There is really no difference between them and I. Perhaps, they are better off because for them it is the physical that is dead, it is the physical that decays. For us it is the emotional. It is our souls that are dead, it is our souls that decay. Either way everything is rotting. I sink my fingernails into the damp soil beneath and let the coolness calm me. It is so calm and there is nothing. They are nothing, I am nothing. All of us are nothing. I realize that the only difference between them and I is a pulse. A pulse lets me live but does not guarantee it will keep me alive.