There are times the sea is sullen rage,

There are times the sea is sullen rage,
And all the wind can carry is despair.
The morning barely brightens the dark air,
And life is what no comfort can assuage.
There is pain too pure for any sage,
When breath is what precisely is not fair,
And hope seems hopelessly beyond repair,
Unlikely to recover much with age.
Ah, then, sweet child, know that you are loved
Simply for the glory of your being,
Regardless what you think or say or do!
This is a gift that cannot be removed,
A passion for a passion beyond seeing
That waits within the darkness just for you.

Death

1. Since being is eternal, our own being is also eternal, both within and outside of time.

2. Consciousness has a beginning and end, but what it is conscious of is ultimately eternal.

3. Because we cannot experience our own creation and extinction--only the moments immediately after and before--we experience being without beginning or end, even though all around us we see things coming into being and disappearing into nothingness.

4. We readily imagine a world without us, but we cannot imagine a world in which we are not imagining a world without us. That is, we cannot imagine death, just as we cannot--and will not--experience death, although we will experience dying.

5. Death is, therefore, unimaginable, which is why in its place we imagine a life after death.

6. Like characters in a play, we exist only within our play, with neither before nor after.

7. The characters may know that the play has a beginning and an end, but for them it itself is all--perfect, complete, with every moment equally eternal, including the last.

The AG

To be true it's withered crass from my wandering mind.