Should we mourn our lives unlived? The unknown paths and the choices left behind? With each possibility cast aside, do we leave behind entirely different realities, different selves?
A different day to live, a different day to die. Do the chronologies and details matter, or is the centre deep and changeless, frothing only at the surface? Do we merely reflect the rays of sunlight and of rainbow, of cloud and darkness? Or do these forces simply shimmer and skim across our surfaces, creating an illusion for us all to mistake as real?
Are the choices that we make perhaps so startlingly vital and important that the only possible option is to tread lightly and to breathe, avoiding paralysis by moving as the child moves, who knows that all the world is play?
A different day to live, a different day to die. Do the chronologies and details matter, or is the centre deep and changeless, frothing only at the surface? Do we merely reflect the rays of sunlight and of rainbow, of cloud and darkness? Or do these forces simply shimmer and skim across our surfaces, creating an illusion for us all to mistake as real?
Are the choices that we make perhaps so startlingly vital and important that the only possible option is to tread lightly and to breathe, avoiding paralysis by moving as the child moves, who knows that all the world is play?