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It has been said that nature does not know extinction. In effect, it knows only change: nothing ever truly disappears, for there is always something—some part, some particle, some formidable semblance—left behind. You can boil water into vapor, but it hasn’t disappeared. Curiosity killed the cat, but condensation brought it back.
Forms evolve and devolve but things always are. There exists no creation and, consequently, no destruction—there exists only transformation.
Age brings with it a certain kryptonite that drains our faith like vampires,
It has been said that nature does not know extinction—that once you’ve existed, all parts of you, whether they’ve dispersed or remained together, will always be.
When you withdraw from the world, you find that the world withdraws from you, too.
Argh, truth.
When you withdraw from the world, you find that you were never really there—that you were never really in the world—because nature does not know extinction, and if you no longer exist, that must mean you never existed in the first place.
This hits home.
