I've been preoccupied lately with thinking through the ramifications of mortality and trying to pin down some meaning in life and death. I reached a point where a cold, logical portion of myself has trouble believing in anything other than annihilation. I used to believe in reincarnation, though, and my younger self thought I had some understanding of where I came from in that regard.

In the end it doesn't matter, I am what I feel and what I do, be it right or wrong on a grander scheme. This was something I doodled late last night in an attempt to remember who I was. The black wolf with gold eyes and a white muzzle has long been a figure of personal reflection for me, a visitor in both my dreams and past attempts at meditation. She will never be my "fursona" because I feel she's too personal to serve that purpose, but will always simply be me to my mind. Keeping that in mind makes me fear the possible inevitably of nothing a measure less than it does otherwise. I don't believe in any specific religion or afterlife, but if anything I do believe life is cyclical, even if not personally. My body will someday break down into its constituent elements and simply be part of the fantastic, delicate improbability that is our Earth, while others live on, die, and others yet are born. Maybe that's okay.

It hurts to think that some of the fantastic individuals I've known who are now gone might only be that, but perhaps the energy that was them is serving some other purpose, now. Maybe they're leading other lives and have no idea who they once were, as all of us might be. We may never know, and I need to ease away from putting so much thought into the subject. Art helps.