YOU LOVE IT MOST AT THE POINT OF LOSING IT, OR PERHAPS DEATH DOES NOT EXIST


I’m thinking here about leaving my little big jungle — little, because I have personalized it as somehow belonging to me even though I know it never, ever can; belonging to my eyes for the moment, perhaps; and big, no, huge, because it it is so impenetrable and vast. This October light, too, melancholy at the edges, in which the green is so very translucent, thin, on the verge of changing color and falling to the ground to fertilize its Mother Tree for spring next year, helps you want to get attached to it. It’s all mulch for life — death is mulch for life. Perhaps there isn’t any death at all, for us humans, too — why should we be so very different from every other particle of creation, every one of which, science tells us, remains from the very beginning of time, recycling in different forms, different colors and sizes and shapes in different parts of the universe’s geography?

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