Seems to me, Marcus, that we’re all just waiting, a giant collective pause inside a mega chrysalis, waiting to emerge into a reality that finally resonates with our sense of being. Like a long, troubled gestation, that has to end someday in the sheer clarity of golden sunshine.
What if this is it? If this is as much light as you can ever get? If this is all there was ever meant to be?
Look around you at all the magic. Isn’t that too much of an effort, too much of beauty just for this incongruent darkness?
What does the universe’s perfection deserve? A perfect life?
Or a perfect person?
why would a butterfly
of a sullen rosebud