what dies before we do?
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Lately, I’ve been thinking about death.
Not in fear.
Just in curiosity.
What actually dies… when we die?
Because the things we made stay.
The stories we told stay.
The conversations. The artwork. The tests. The dresses. The designs.
They don’t disappear.
They’re timestamped.
Stored in some dimension we don’t need a body to revisit.
So what’s the part that ends?
Maybe it’s the feeling.
The breath behind the action.
The scent of meaning we attach to the moment.
Maybe death is just the end of interpretation.
And if that’s true —
if the only thing we lose is our ability to feel it all —
then what does that say
about the way we live now?
Because I know a lot of people
(myself included)
who spend years moving through life
with no feeling.
Chasing success with no joy.
Performing love with no presence.
Creating beauty with no breath in it.
And if we’re not feeling —
if we’re not interpreting the moment —
aren’t we already gone?
✧ quiet prompt:
What part of your life have you stopped feeling — even though it still exists?
🌒 next layer:
→ read: emotional extinction → chapter: underneath