Entering into the Temple of Life we find it is ancient and crumbling. There are gaping holes in the roof high above, through which birds fly and the sun's rays shine through, illuminating the dusky interior. Within the temple animals have made their dens, the dank smell of jungle undergrowth reveals the abandoned nature of this previously hallowed space as one returned to its natural state, the splendor of nature unbound, reclaiming what was, is and forevermore shall be its own.
We are like that, also. We belong to nature. Our bodies are stardust, our ever component molecular part has its origin deep within a star, somewhere, somewhen. Whilst the mundanity of our daily toil presents us with the facade of normalcy, our lives are anything but. Each instance, each thought, each experience is a new occurrence upon the face of the Earth. Something that has never been considered in exactly the way we considered it, at the exact time, in the exact space of locale and being that we inhabit. Life, then, is a continuous co-creation, as we interact with our environments, internal and external, building experience and contributing to the holographic reality that we call existence.
The Temple of Life no longer creaks, its settled stones no longer burnished by acolytes devoted to its upkeep. Petitioners to the gods and goddesses no longer line its overgrown halls and corridors, no longer offer libations and riches to the temple Elite, who look down upon them as if they were so much detritus, to be cast away as unclean and unfit to bear witness to the glory of the divine. And so it is with our lives, as time flows past like a river of fluid transformation, we find ourselves inhabiting bodies of limited capacity, as years of misuse and abuse catch up with us, leaving us doddering and creaking, until finally the strange noises stop as we slow, bent and weakened, ready for that final stoppage of movement that heralds our inevitable demise.
All things return from whence they came, a fundamental condition of life is death. The movement of blood, of sinews, of breath in and out, of cells busily churning, dying and birthing, of skin shedding, of hair growing and falling out, of eyes brightening and then dimming, as time finally runs out for us each and we rest wearily yet observant of that which we have dreaded for so long. What lies beyond, we wonder. What fate awaits us, if any. Is there quietude? Eternal damnation? The promised perfection of a heavenly reward? Only experience answers us, the quietude of the dead a portentous question not asked, awaiting an answer not wanted.
The Temple settles into the dank, moist earth slowly over the centuries and millennia. It no longer stands as tall as it once did, its spires no longer pierce the mornings skies in defiant rebellion against gravity. Today, moss and vines cover its external face, broken wallls and fallen expanses of rock and littered debris lie strewn across the landscape, evidence of the ponderous remorselessness of nature's insistence upon a return to primeval being, of the breaking down of created things, back into their essence.
Our lives settle into the sea of time, brief splashes of activity creating ripples of potentiality that interact with other splashes, all droplets merging within the infinte sea of becoming that is the fundamental substrata of all beingness, of all existence, of all that was, is and ever shall be. Consciousness permeates all, is all.