#161

Spring is a time of such soft delicacies springing up everywhere. All the newest, rawest things resurfacing the world. Trees dropping their tiny, brief buds, their work already done, as little white flowers start springing up in the deep uncut grass. Frogspawn in the still pools of the creek, small toads on the sidewalk at night. The big dying willow put forth more branches and blossoms than last year. New growth all the way around.

Is it really dying? Yes. Everything is. Even as it is born.

That is the great wonder and opportunity of this existence.

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Taking an infinite multiverse as writ, the death of the universe is just the end of a symphony, one symphony among infinite symphonies. Every note ends, the piece runs its course, but the music is eternal.

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One note sounds out, one voice singing one tone. It begins, and ends, and though there exists not a trace of its passing, it was; it sounded. Thus it sounds eternally, will always have sounded, and the truth of this endures beyond the end of all things.

Nothing needs to do anything to be. And to be is to possess universal significance, whether anyone knows it or it goes unnoticed, stays secret, exists only beneath text.


--JL