Blood is only thicker than water

When it’s your own blood on the line

See how thin blood runs

When risk now lays upon them



I’m aware of my morality

Of the fragility

That is unraveling

Before me.


Is life a pendulum

Of deliberate choices?


We all have the chance to choose right

And yet do we all have the determination of character?


What makes up the catalyst by which our lives are defined?


And what if, where upon we find that definite period at the end of our stories, at that precipice, we find the syncronicities in all the irrelevance?


Yes, our choices don’t matter, but the fact that we decided to choose at all defines us.

In indefinency

We did not stand idle by fate.

But held hands along side of it.


We were the companions of our presence.

Witnesses to our actions.

Our own host.




And though ultimately the definitions, choices , the sequences of what we can inadequately perceive as existence, don’t matter, it is significant to the consciousness that belongs to us, that we observe.

That we collect.

That we continue.


We had a purpose before we came here.

Our lives belong to us all, to share.


There is nothing we don’t know.


That we don’t see.


That we won’t remember.


Nothing that we can evade.


And yet, it is ultimately our bodies experience of our existence that decides our death.

We are only conscious to witness.


And witness we will.


In marvel we shall ascend

Into the experience of the end

As nothing but a beginning

That can not be fathomed in the physical

But not all things experienced

Are corporeal.


The body can not always rationalize that which all it witnesses, of energy.


And so death is the end of all corporeal experience, yet the beginning of all that lies beyond it.

It is in our physical forms nature to fear what it doesn’t understand, to survive.


Yet our souls, our intellects, crave more than what physical form can provide.


And so when purpose has been out lived, we move onward.

There is more we must witness.


More that is to be explored.


And so death and life are two world’s in one consciousness.


Two meaningless limitations of perception.


Yet there is value in the preciousness we provide for them.


For without their illusions we would not press to be.

And the womb of compassionate silence would cease to be.

That quiet companion would dissolve.

And in extension so would we.


Embrace the inevitable but realize it’s your nature in this existence to resist it.