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alainn_aislinnNo.
It is not what I do. It is not what I know. Lives, life, death -- everything that has such depth of meaning for you, things you cling to as consequential. They don't last. Lives, I mean. Not even ours, long as they are. They will end someday, for most haven't the perseverance to maintain movement forward throughout eternity, even when blessed with it from birth.
In the end, there is nothing to save in a life. We all die. We all change. We all move from one state to another and are merely passing through this present form of existence until we change again and become something else in the circle that is existence and time. The Wheel ever spins. Nothing is saved.
But nothing is lost, either.
We live in what we leave behind. Children. Words. Songs. Paintings. Sculptures. Michelangelo died, just a man. But his work remains and will remain. Shakespeare wrote and then he died, but still you all know of him. He lives on in his work, throughout space and time as long as the storytelling urge of life endures.
And it will endure. It will survive so long as sentient beings of some form survive.
I do not know how to save a life, no. It is inconsequential in the eternal scope of the world. But I know how to make something of a life. I know how to make a life's work immortal.
In the end, isn't that what you want of me?
It is not what I do. It is not what I know. Lives, life, death -- everything that has such depth of meaning for you, things you cling to as consequential. They don't last. Lives, I mean. Not even ours, long as they are. They will end someday, for most haven't the perseverance to maintain movement forward throughout eternity, even when blessed with it from birth.
In the end, there is nothing to save in a life. We all die. We all change. We all move from one state to another and are merely passing through this present form of existence until we change again and become something else in the circle that is existence and time. The Wheel ever spins. Nothing is saved.
But nothing is lost, either.
We live in what we leave behind. Children. Words. Songs. Paintings. Sculptures. Michelangelo died, just a man. But his work remains and will remain. Shakespeare wrote and then he died, but still you all know of him. He lives on in his work, throughout space and time as long as the storytelling urge of life endures.
And it will endure. It will survive so long as sentient beings of some form survive.
I do not know how to save a life, no. It is inconsequential in the eternal scope of the world. But I know how to make something of a life. I know how to make a life's work immortal.
In the end, isn't that what you want of me?
