I have worn out the words that describe rebirth.

There are no new ways to recreate what is.

The sculpture pulverized to dust,

and water added, folded back into clay,

then molded into some transcendent form,

is still dust.

Each palace built on opulence and verdant builder’s ego,

with gilt and polished stones and cedar bones;

the same wood and rock that, though threadbare

shelter the peasant and the poor from wind and rain.

Changing the form of what cannot be created,

nor destroyed without unfathomable power

leaves everything the same, always.

If so, then how do electrons, protons and neutrons

that once made stars and gasses that fill the no-so-voids of space,

come to be protozoa, fish, a Tyrannosaurus Rex, a bird, a monkey and me?

Without design, this seems absurd.

Can chaos produce that which could exist to ponder chaos?

What function of adaptation could produce a mind capable of rendering us all to ash in minutes?

Did the protozoa wish for change?

Did it desire to be a fish?

Did it yearn to evolve beyond simple cells and mitochondria to move and breathe in the depths of the oceans that covered a fledgling Earth?

Did it wish to be reborn?

Higher consciousness is hardly a beneficial evolutionary trait.

We’re never happy with our lot in Darwin’s cast.

We are malcontent.

Tantrum throwing children seeking reprieve from our selves.

Freedom from our humanity.

Immortality, godhood and absolution.

Anything to remake ourselves into something more than dust.

More than sticks and stones.

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