Not last, only leading to the next. For deadlines are illusion, death only a passing into the next. Only a step of resurrection. The flame, I thought was dead, but no, the kindling needed some breath. Thank you for your breath, my wounds needed more healing. I needed restraint, and yet to be set free, you did both.
What will this notion pass into. For time isn't a stopping point, it is a flow, a river of life roaring forward. To try and stop it, or even to resist, is going against the grain. It's the opposite of what your cells long for, they bid you give way. They meld with the timeless, which draws you, it's not calling us to our opposite, it's calling us, drawing us, to our natural origin, our final destination. Yet it's not a destination at all, only a doorway to an infinite infinity.
In this light, let the deeps pour out. Let them bubble up and out to fill everything, and yet when this task is done, there is still an infinite amount to fill. And such is love. Not dualistic, can hold two things at once without passing judgement on one or the other. "Let them both remain," it says. "They both have something to say." I hope I listen. There is one center. But this center has infinite depth, and therefore infinite centers. How else can we fall in love for all eternity?