What begins as a triﬂe becomes an imperative. Impossible to ignore.
What begins as a pain becomes a pleasure. Impossible to resist.
What begins as a wonder becomes a bore. Impossible to recover.
What begins as a birth becomes a death. Impossible to remember.
But what has no beginning is becoming, becoming is its own end.
To be or not to be is not the question.
To be anything at all is already wonderful enough, if it weren’t so familiar.
To be consumed with not to be is nihilism.
But not to be is much more comprehensible than to be.
To be only seems obvious because we are oblivious.