Stardust

Little bits of everything

Tiny atoms

Negligible figments of almost imagination

Plants, rocks, or water

Or birds, or air,

Or one of many millions of things

— sentient, simple, complex, living, or inanimate —

Become us

Then un-become.

We think of life, death, time spent on the planet

We think

And then we don’t.

But we — or those little bits that assembled into us — are forever.

In yet other forms. Other beings. Other possibilities.

Breath, thought, feeling, joy, sorrow, bonds that we form.

These are fleeting.

But we are forever through our zillion parts.

Ever changing, ever there, ever new.

The only finality is the transition, the flow.

We appear through magic, and disappear through more.

Become visible, then not.

The magical thing that makes us us

also cannot see that we were, and are, and will be.

Forever.

Stardust.

// this was written on the passing of my brother. He lived well, and died in peace. But that’s merely how we see it, no?