I don’t believe in death.
I do believe that organic matter decays,
But I don’t believe in “death” as an idea,
In the commonly conceptualized sense of the word.
Each human being is an interesting spark of mysteriously swirling energy.
That’s what I see when I look at people.
Beautiful puzzles to the eye, with underlying patterns of magnificently complex, paradoxically chaotic, code.
Worthy of investigating.
Worthy of enjoying.
Worthy of interacting with.
Just like every bike ride is the same but different.
Just like every book is the same but different.
So too are people.
And all things.
Worthy of time.
Worthy of effort.
Sources of light.
Sources of intrigue and joy.
Growing “attached” to people is like growing attached to dolls.
Or seashells. Or films. Or radiology.
It is a wonderful thing to find comfort in dolls, or perhaps to see the artistry in dolls, or furthermore to sew dolls, as one might create life via a human child,
But to fret when you have lost a doll, whether through destruction or misplacement, is to do a discredit to all of the similarly worthy balls of energy and intrigue rolling through existence around you.
Nothing is singular.
Nothing is finite.
Nothing is in itself, just itself.
Growing attached to a human being is like growing attached to rare piece of sea glass or a favorite song.
It is you
Trying to freeze
Trying to keep hold of your photographs,
Instead of understanding the underlying fact,
to capture these things because you once felt something truly profound in the fleeting, momentary engagement in them.
To think that people “die” is to assume that moments “die.”
It is just as silly and strange, … and cancerous and pointless.