birth is death is birth. the more I walk down this path of life, the more I think about death as not a thing that happens to us — a fixed event on a linear narrative arc — X character is born, lives, and dies — but as a process that moves through us, through me — an infinite number of times before the body actually dies. (and then, who knows?) it is a process of seeing death as not the interruption to life, but as the mechanism through which life can move; through which life is possible. I only need to look outside to the forest to see proof of this fact: that things die everyday. and things are born from the same soil. the sun and the moon, and the ocean tides — are but rhythms of our own comings and goings. the process of death blurs into the process of birth. and as soon as I feel like I'm experiencing an emotional death, the dark density of that shroud seems to transform, almost overnight, in a blink of the eye, into something sheer and light. the soul, like the moon — is now, and always new again.
Read More