and so it seems we are made of space and a moments worth of gathered dust - a verge of earth and air with no plausible means to be held as form.
Yet we are.
To this mystery alone we owe our value, a god to itself in full creation of infinite worlds. This is our unfolding, existence aware of itself but with no grand design save its own expansion. Our life, now, is only an instant in it all, our verge will again be nothing more than space and dust, and yet - the mystery will continue.
And so will our unfolding.
~
Peace,
Eric
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