The moment you are born, all things constituting the futility of life, elude you. No matter how hard you try to reach them, you always fail. Is it because of vanity? No... It has to be this extremity of soil that you evolve on... right in a glade of all things moving. You won't get to see anything because your roots go deep, in the stilness you were conceived. You are left there immobile, castrated from your initial draft. You just sense the pollen of what lies ahead floating around, coveting your soul, to be purified once again. You cannot see nor forge the shape of the transition towards living. You only hold its mold, standing still, with your back turned to what is conventionally called life... facing what is inevitably pronounced as death. This transition has nothing to do with how you perceive life and death by consensus... nor how you vision them by fear or awe. The moment you were conceived on this glade of all existing things, you were condemned to bloom reclusive, blind and still, holding the mold of the reshaping of your fate in hand. Don't expect to see which direction to march when this curtain of optical illusion will be set aside. Seeing has no meaning in this futile world. It's all about hearing... Hearing the whisper of the wind and the direction towards which it sails its pollen. The pollen of all existing things is coming to you on this glade of in between life and death. Just close your eyes, feel your bloom out of the stilness of your fate... And then you'll see... life!