Whether it was beautiful or morbid was all a matter of perspective. The idea that life goes on. For us human beings on earth. For the seasons and the trees. Summer becomes fall, fall becomes winter, winter becomes spring, spring becomes summer, and so on. The leaves bud, the leaves flourish, the leaves die, they fertilize the ground, the ground lives. Death-birth-rebirth. It’s comforting. It’s maddening. Sure, we’re getting pretty close to fucking it up for good, but we’ve been here for millions of years, we in some form, and life continues to be. Life goes on. It expands outward. Even when you think it shouldn’t. When the people around you, like the leaves, also die, when you can’t stop your own head from exploding—we continue to rotate in space, the markets continuing, the sun rising, the sun setting. The rich getting richer, the poor continuing to exist no matter how much money or food our gods of technology and capitalism bring into the world. It goes on.
