Where does it end for me? This body falters, unravels, dissolves into the earth—yet I wake again, as if nothing truly ends, only shifts. The same patterns emerge, the same instincts take hold, the same conditions shape another existence. The form is different, but the mind picks up where it left off, like a flame passed from one candle to the next.
Forgetting would be a release, but memory lingers—not in clear recollections, but in the way my hands know motions I’ve never learned, in the way a stranger’s face feels familiar, in the way my mind drifts to thoughts it shouldn’t yet understand. Is it merely the mind constructing illusions, weaving meaning into coincidence? Or is it something deeper, a natural consequence of movement without end?
There is no attachment to this, no longing to stay or to go, only observation. If there is a point where the cycle ceases, I have not reached it. If there is a choice, I have not recognized it. The river carries me forward, and whether I resist or surrender, the current does not change.
A Fool's Handbook 