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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