passion, left empty

passion, left empty, becomes thin as tissue and most likely necessary to dry the tears that come from its own sense of loss and deepening despair that nothing exists and everything is a creation of the mind fully buried in the fantasy of existence. that even one moment of life is unbearable without a reason or a purpose or a meaning that the mind creates to change what is into something that can be understood or stopped or left until later. the unending parade of distraction and contraction from the unbearable emptiness and unending being without something to change or create or feel or think. one second of that truth destroys the fruitless dreams and toy maker pursuits of the billions and billions of lives that mechanically pursue survival and comfort and hold tight to small hopes and prayers that make all that matters this one tiny existence. i live and die every second as the one being and all around me a re the wrinkles of the face and the hairs of the head and the toenails of that soul. all are precious but none know the truth or the meaning for their life. where it starts i am not but in the end all come to me  for none have ever left but that i create their life anew. what moment this that is given but it is taken for nothing is theirs but this soul that has no emptiness for all that is comes only once and never is always waiting, alone unending beyond what words can describe. each time a new life cries, and old life dies, the end and beginning are not the same but what is given is taken and what is taken is always returned to the giver of life. all that comes in the moment as the breath in the body endures pushes once more becomes life as swiftly as it ends.