I had a strange experience a year or two ago.
I lay, beneath a tall fir tree, out in the forest, gazing up into the canopy, aware of the endless, gentle rain of needles, falling to the ground, and onto me. It was cool, the sky overcast, and a raven cackled nearby, patiently.
I thought about all those falling needles, gradually covering everything, until there was only an indistinct lump, out in the forest. All trees end up like that, slowly decaying, underneath a ever-deepening carpet of debris and moss.
Not a bad end, I thought. easy, gradual, natural...
It was sad, but not sad. Poignant, perhaps.
I see myself being made use of, in the end, by birds, animals, insects, and finally by trees. In the manner of plains indians, left out under the sky, on a wooden platform. Probably that will not be the way it will be, but that is how I imagine it.
The manner of my death? A gradual fading out, and losing touch with life, snuggled under my blanket of needles, somewhere in the forest.