I barely feel the world get by on its own. It’s encompassed by its own stagnant cycle; keeping itself on a steady yet still continuation of all life forms.
Slowly they continue on without the intention to prosper.
They make unconscious decision while the world also makes its own unconscious decision to move selective species forward.
In what seems like pure coincidence comes to what now looks like an intentioned benevolent gift.
The world must have someone to give and share its wonders to, just as much as we have much to give to the world.
Indiscriminately focused on keeping the wheels turning, we forget the machine we’re turning the wheels for.
Cursed with the need for knowledge and expansion.
So much that we might even die for it.
So much that we might even kill for it.
The atoms that mend the fabric of space and time, the atoms that hold together my skin will fall apart at any moment.
The ground beneath me will crumple away into nothingness.
A large blanket of nothingness through empty space.
Each and every one of us is a continuation of one consciousness.
When a life has ended, a new life begins and so proceeds the start of a new chapter in a single book that is but a single thread in a series of books.
We lead and formulate the content in chapters based on our actions.
One who writes a chapter full of misconduct doesn’t have the satisfaction of the end of it’s book.
Where we each serve as a chapter in a book, the ones who write a chapter full of misconduct will continue the series and the book will not end until the mysterious deity finds satisfaction in the original and sincere choice of words.
My book has yet to be finished.
Perhaps it hasn’t started yet.