Let us be buried.
Concealed within the earth that bore us once, and will house us once more upon the day of our corporeal end.
We are but containers. Eclectic combinations of elemental left-overs of a star once grand and today burned out.
To lay upon the loamy earth, to breath deeply the damp, sodden scents of a billion decaying organisms and declare it the smell of life.
Such a simple irony.
The life of one is the death of a million ‘lesser’ beings, and the recombination of a thousand more.
A compilation of lifeless star-stuff amalgamated into a functioning, blood-infused individual.
Without decay there can be no renewal.
No growth without the die-back of a long winter’s cold.
This and only this is the truth inherent in nature.
Every chain is truly a circle, for all particles are recyclable given sufficient energy and the correct instructions, though most constructs are imbibed without blueprints, and batteries seldom included.
The eternal struggle remains only in their attainment.
To create is an ultimately human construct.
‘God’ created the universe, or perhaps man created God to explain our apparent existence.
Either way, ‘creation’ is the only way we can express the appearance of new objects.
But creation is inherently impossible, for to make something new, it must not have existed before in any form, and the sheer possibility of its creation preordains its eventual existence.
We have progressed from configuring parts of nature, to emulating nature with the man-made, to great effect, but have we truly ‘created’ anything new?
I am just a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy.
But we still haven’t found the blueprints.
Reproduction is exactly that.
Even our most fundamental biological purpose is not creation in its true sense.
The closest thing to creation we have is art, and even so it remains more of a rendition, or appropriation of nature.
A manifestation of human awareness.
An assembly of media that abstractly explains what it is that we have truly created immaculately.
Concepts and hypotheses.
Those conglomerations of thought that cannot ever have a place in the ‘real world’, for they lack the very substance that binds us to this infinite loop of re-manufacturing.
Society is our greatest creation.
The crowning achievement of human ingenuity.
The folly of every individual confined within it’s unlimited potential to manipulate the material world.
The one thing we can never truly attain, is also the thing that contains and controls us.
Slaves to our only creation.
God is chained up in the basement of heaven, and he only has himself to blame.