I like taking photos in cemeteries.

This one I took on my daily get-da-suga-under-control walk on a cool autumn morning. The rays of the sun had just burnt off the remnants of the fog. It was a beautiful day.

When I return to dust, I don’t want to be pinned down by tonnes of earth, steel and concrete. I will be that photon of light, streaming from the sun, dancing through the grating.

For I am Dutch, and in my language dust, stof, has two meanings. As well as denoting that which covers the furniture in a fine layer in which I like to write rude words, stof also means matter. It is a Physics term.

The entire space/time universe is stof which at it’s core is energy, appearance notwithstanding. Galaxies, black holes, space, earth, you and I, all stof.

In English we say stuff.

I think identifying with one’s stuff is much more fun, and liberating, than constraining one’s self to a conceptual I-dentity. Which is merely an epiphenomenon of stuff.

And dies.

Stuff doesn’t.