There is no body. There is no breath or lungs or heart or footfalls. There are no feet and no hands and no fingers and no song and no voice and no body, but there is also no need for body. There is a rhythm to this, patterns falling together and apart in the never ending tide of chaos. There are flurries of life and vastness and something that may be a mind or a soul or a spirit or even just a person but spread too thin over too far to tell so that there is only awareness. In the emptiness of void that does not exist there looms a future that cannot be coming yet and a past that has never existed. The dizzying flutters of life that is and is not and might be and never will rise and tumble like bubbles and grow leaden and bloat and sink again. Winding veins of energy creep like frostlike creatures like the swift stretching of shadows at sunset and lace together and apart and light the void like nerves or a net large enough to bind all of everything together, and it drifts through nothing that cannot be caged so it drapes like jewels, like water, like spider webs strung with dew and contains nothing. Drifting particles coalesce and blend and part and shatter into dust again, and two parts of potential meet on a path of collision and tap so gently, so softly, brush past as if to try and escape unnoticed, but they touch. They touch and they explode into wind, into being, into everything, in rippling waves that shudder through all the non-being there was before, that grew and wove and danced and beat in harmony, and remake it into something that is real and more substantial than dreams. In the void, two potential thoughts meet, and everything is born, including death. I explode into being and out of what I was, and I die and I live and I breathe, though there is still no body. There is physicality and realness and now and all the universe and it’ s dance and it’ s life just being born from all that died before living and all the dreams growing old again and growing now not just drifting, but I am void and I am being and I have no body because I am not contained, not constant, but I grow and I be, and I am real now. I am I now, not just possible.
In a silent room thin light leaks into gauzy curtains, filtering through dust and creating gold and sifting like fallen snow onto softly fluttering lashes. Old eyes drift open and stare at nothing, which they know is everything but at the same time unimportant. Warm wood gleams above them and they sag, tired and bony and frail, into their worn bed and worn life and worn body. They cannot feel their fingertips and there is no grace to their spine, to their limbs because they have not the energy to move. Once, long ago, they danced, and their feet ache to do so again but their legs are frail and their skin is fine and wrinkled and marked with age, and all their parts tremble gently under the strain of life and
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