Everyone loves a redemption story.  Or, a fall from grace.

People want light to be drawn from mud.

They want to know that in our murky natures, something holy, something close to god can be wrest from us, from the flesh webbing and bone caging of our little beating organs.

We want to know that if we are black, if we are decaying things, then that we can transmute, defy ourselves, become something beyond the coal destined things we are now.
We want to know that in our desire for what we cannot name, that we still have souls. We want to know that we are not merely evolved, intricate, dirt molds that live transient lies, then die.

Well, we are dust. 
Then, water.

We are the things that've crumbled away from stars, the minuscule fragments that cease to be light.

One day, we will be a caked, dead mass, and the dying glow orb will swallow us, dry spittle of itself. 
Then, we will again become thoughtless and lifeless, become the gleaming movement that we all once were.
 
Until then though, we are only the things that lay in wait.


-
 
"What does the evening star taste like?"

"Like all other stars; a burning wind that hungers for a dark hollow to bury itself."