You were a miracle of conception, brought forth from nothing, an act, the energy of human will, wailing, and birth. Every work of your being was conformed to an unseen image, written forth as an unwinding thread, thinly drawn from the life that marches between all the order of celless atoms and formless voids. You walk the path paved by every father, daughter, mother and son before you, why fear?
Why do you cry at your death, fret and worry at this cloud?
This is what you are, a cloud, a margin forming out of nothing, vapor rising forth in trails of blood toe to head. This existence is the favor of perfect order in every threaded molecule. Nothingness is not far from you, yet you are here, screaming, beating against it with the same thin heart beat that you had six weeks from your conception...
This will pass, but will you know something more than this life?
What is it that holds you here, still, alive against the dark face of nothing?
Ask,
turn,
and face the question.
