A mushroom lives and dies never knowing its own colossal source. Like us, some are nourishing, others poisonous and a few mind-blowing, but neither imagine the extraordinary apparatus that anchors their existence
For the mushroom it can be a fungus that weighs tons, a billion times larger than themselves, living on as the oldest organism on earth.
For us? Well, none know. Like the mushroom, we bloom and are driven to think we are it, our bodies carry all that we know, can know, and think there is. Only with consciousness, we are compelled to conjure hope in one simplistic cult driven God after another.
While the truth might find our bodies expendable, but our essence eternal, only defused upon death, mixed and redistributed to make bits of us present in an infinite number of new existences just as oblivious of their author as we are today.
I have no faith in what I write here. It just seems more real than all the poppycock fairy tales religions tempt me with.
Richard Kimball
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