This Unknown Life

......... and so i am writing only to you: that other, who is not other. 

my fellow earthworm, depositing your wormcasts, as i do, in the hope that you will not be forgotten; that you matter. 

we are matter, vitalised.  you and i, the living self and its reflection.  it seems we have a requirement laid on us, to live.  to be - without knowing what being and living are.  to go on - without knowing where we are, or why we should continue.  to persist - without knowing whether we matter.  nevertheless, we must go on:  reflecting.  reflecting.  reflecting.  and trying not to lose hope.

and one day - will the mirror and its reflection be reunited?  or is that another face of the same forlorn hope we cling to: that our lives have meaning?  that even our wormcasts, those laboured excretions of description and observation, have meaning?

there seems to me to be only one way in which we can possibly claim to have meaning, and that is: if our lives do not belong to us, and never have.  we only have meaning if we are life itself:  if we compose it, and we become it, and in time step out of it to give way to new manifestations.   

if our lives are not ours but life's living of itself, then we are one.  a fragmented one: broken and confused and always being brought back together in new configurations; and always being lived, and lived out, and abandoned and resurrected, abandoned and restored.  life is so careless of itself.  but it is one, we are that one, and you and i are each other's reflection: you and i are life itself. 

'There is no other thing, there is no other person, there is no other reality'.