Is an apocalypse of the self,
A turning of our hopes and dreams to sand.
What we had built: nothing.
What we had longed for: a puff of smoke.
In this way,
Even our lives as a whole can be viewed
As nothing more than a planting of seeds,
A fertilization of earth so that each generation
Does not have to experience what the preceding did.
Our pains: stored in time.
Our successes: innately remembered,
So that the next generation inherits them as gifts.
What we think of as the self is but a momentary vessel of water.