Maybe

I don’t believe in an afterlife — certainly not one in terms of punishment or reward, of safety, security, bliss, or pain. Neither do I believe that I’ve lived before, in the sense that I’ve passed through previous incarnations that have led to the one I’m living now. I don’t say these beliefs are wrong. I only say that in the sense in which they’re traditionally accepted, they don’t ring true to me, or feel necessary. I do, however, see that within the space and duration of my own life, I’ve created my own punishments and rewards, my own variable sense of safety and security, my own experiences of bliss and pain; I see, similarly, that within this same span, I’ve passed through numerous lives to reach the one I’m living now, and that I’ve had different appetites and held different outlooks. The one thing I don’t see, and the one thing I won’t say, is that I know. That said, I can also see that after my death I will live again — not as myself, or as an idealized version of myself, but as a perfectly and beautifully recycled combination of that of which I’m made and whatever else is at hand. Likewise, I have lived before — again, not as myself, but in any number of manifestations that comprise this wonderful world. I don’t seek the cause. Maybe the cause seeks me; maybe it finds me useful thus far. Maybe the cause has a sense of humor.

July 8, 2020

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