Matter cannot be created or destroyed — that’s what they say — that we were birthed from the big bang, and nursed by a burning star, and we float suspended in space — protected — as though still inside our mothers. And yet, despite all of life’s impossibility, we still view death as an end — a period to be placed by the hands of someone much wiser, even if it makes no sense, even when it’s not grammatically correct. If only we knew how the divine looked down upon us and laughed. We do not die, only begin again, running next to ourselves, hearing a heartbeat timed so perfectly that we think we’re alone — only we’re never alone. We live life after life like page upon page, fanning endlessly, touching everything, going on. The unbelievable. The unkillable. The unwise.