Death is a lie. We see bones, we see decay and those we know and love will lose their bodies but all is spirit and spirit cannot die. The tree lives in the wood and the horse lives in the shoe and even the old red barn glows with something more than pigment, something more than just a certain wavelength of light. We are placed within these vessels for a time, but our bodies are not who we are. Even time itself is a construct of an ego than fears the truth of our origin and our purpose. Some would say I am obsessed with death because I so often capture its remains. I myself have thought this. But I reserve the right to revise my perspective. I see not death in these objects left behind, I see the living. I am far from morbid. I am fecund. My comprehension of what I see and how I see it has become clear to me during this time of transformation. I absorb everything and within me nothing ever dies. That is no curse, though I have sometimes chosen to see it through that lens. We were not born here to die here. We were born to love, and love is infinite and eternal. Love is the only residue of the past that survives intact. It is the only thing that’s real. Love is no lie. But fear is. Wood will rot and iron will rust and all will return to particles. But that is not death. These fence posts and tree stumps and hulks of old trucks are not curiosities they’re clues. Form is illusion. Content is distraction. Only this moment, this one, now, is real.