Before we can construct anything that endures, we must first dissolve what we once were. It’s the paradox that runs through the very marrow of creation—nothing that is worth anything survives its first death. This is not the death of the body, but the destruction of the ego’s illusions, the slow collapse of our fantasies into the ruin of reality. Only when the old skin falls away, shredded and torn by the unrelenting passage of time, can the new emerge—scarred, remade, but alive in ways it could never have been before.
In the quiet aftermath of disintegration, in the hollow echo of what was, lies the fertile soil of something pure. The self, as it is known, must die, for only in that grave of identity can we plant the seeds of something real, something unburdened by the weight of who we thought we were. Creation is never an act of construction—it is an act of surrendering the false, the pretended, the illusory, until only the core remains, raw and unprotected.
We fear the collapse of what we’ve built, terrified of the fragments left behind, the pieces that no longer fit. But in those shattered remains is where the true architect of life works. Only by accepting that we must die to who we were can we resurrect as who we are meant to be.
This is the divine, unspoken law: before any real creation,
something must fall away.
Before life can rise,
it must first confront its own end.
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