Written

Exploration of the soul, by <n>Princess Sab Zada</n>.

When we over-index on documenting our lives, or infuse it with the aesthetic of cinema, scoring the climaxes, editing out the in-betweens that make up a life, we risk inverting its utility. Instead of being an existential hedge against dying, it becomes one against living. We end up believing things about our former selves that weren’t quite true, or doing it for the gram, or missing a hike before it’s even over. In our search for meaning we obscure it.

“How strange and foolish is man. He loses his health in gaining wealth. Then to regain health he wastes his wealth. He ruins his present while worrying about his future – but weeps in the future by recalling his past. He lives as though death shall never come to him, but dies in a way as if he were never born"

My Life Was Over And I Wanted To Go Again by artists <n>Michael Dumontier</n> and <n>Neil Farber</n>.

We are slowed down sound and light waves, a walking bundle of frequencies tuned into the music of the cosmos, we are souls dressed up in sacred biochemical garments, and our bodies are the instruments through which our souls play their music.