have a miserable-but-uselessly-rhetorical birthday

when a thing is born, its death, we well know, has begun. it comes as a surprise, though, how alive some things begin to feel once they have finally–and most mercifully–died.

but is to say this perhaps more poetic than true? we can observe, after all, that the more gifted (though less comely) sibling to the resurrected is the soul whose thriving is synchronistic to its own denouement.

this is how i wish to be known–as this kind of soul. but it is not how i will to be. the effort required is greater, I fear, than my resolve to refuse utter dependence upon newness of life.

persistant questions: can we wear robes of white having never sweated blood? would we ever really want to?