Falling-rooting

The death world's snow fell heavily again.

I stood by the window, watching the snowflakes fall from the top layer – they don't disappear, just change form. Ascenders' memories are refined into these transparent crystals, each enveloping a kind of resolute courage. And we who remain here breathe their scattered fragments, live in their constructed buildings, as if sipping another possibility of existence. I once thought ascension was a mercy.

There is no better choice, only more real choices.

Those souls choosing ascension gave up attachments; they become part of the top world, fall into the real – there, no crack between signifier and signified, no forever misplaced object of desire. They use forgetting to dissolve the wound of existence itself, fall into a romantic nothingness, a disappearance more thorough than death, awaiting purification to combine with souls becoming new human bodies.

Ascension is not escape, but facing the absurd beyond the symbolic system. They choose to become what language cannot articulate, using disappearance to complete the final enlightenment. And we – these souls dragged down by attachments, unable to become light enough to ascend – choose to continue floating in the death world, drawing paths in the maze of memories that never reach an end.

We in the middle layer are not ascenders or emigrants, not the dust of second death.

We root in the mud of memories, but our branches stretch towards the human world. Those unfulfilled wishes, unspoken apologies, belated love – all become our growth rings – expanding circle by circle until filling the death world's cracks.

The Void bears the flames of ascenders burning memories. The act of erasure proves the existence of what is erased. What ascenders take isn't memories, but their weight; what they leave isn't empty shells, but the shape of will.

The brick walls embedded with attachments of the departed, the streets walking souls with unresolved wishes, the sky snowing from the upper world – all tell us this is not the end, not the start, just a long comprehension, a necessary path to balance.

Both are actually living downward, the destiny of half the souls – either sinking into pure nothingness (ascension), or falling into real chaos, growing new selves in the soil of attachments (waiting for the second death).

In the distance, new souls are being guided by messengers. Some fly up, some fall down. And I, like them, continue walking on this endless road.

I lay on this world's bed, pondering those long-perplexing questions until I figured everything out, eyes dry, tears tracing.Facing death, do we really only have these two choices? Perhaps it's a more open topic. Ascenders become the world's alibi; fallers become witnesses present. And my fingers still retain the temperature of those memories in the buildings – this temperature tells me: existence precedes essence, choice precedes meaning.