I often think about time before time—what anything was before anything was. I wonder if it stretches infinitely backward as it does forward, if some immeasurable force fuels its continuation, if it is the breath of something divine, or if it has always been—a loop with no first motion, only the eternal turning of the wheel.
And among these musings shines one glint of anything I have ever felt wholly to be truth: whatever this is—this whole universe, you and I, life and time—it comes from something that wanted to exist. Whatever set it in motion did so with absolute intent. It did not waver, it did not half-form, it did not hesitate at the threshold of its own becoming—it gave all to be. Whether it be some unfathomable entity, some unpersonifiable force, or something beyond naming, it went all in.
And knowing this—feeling it in my bones to be true—I must reciprocate. Whatever it was, it wanted nothing more than to exist, and so it did. Existence willed itself into being, and so do I. I do not owe it, and it does want for it. That I exist is enough.
But armed with this feeling, immutable and foundational, I want nothing more than to honor it. I must, because it wants nothing else from me. I have no reason not to try that could surmount this irrepressible gratitude and pride in my existence.
If that is not love, I do not know what is.
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