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The sun rises, and the sun goes down.

The earth turns and tilts, but never leaves its orbit.

Waves crash against the shoreline, and then they recede back into the ocean.

Day in and day out, we consign ourselves to routine.

We believe so firmly that today, that next week, that next month, that next year, will follow the same pattern as its former counterpart.

It’s a pattern by which we can use as a frame of reference for the rest of the chaos of life that pervades us. It’s predictable—until it isn’t. The reality always is that today, the earth, and the sun is never quite that same as it was yesterday, or whatever pattern it seems to repeat on. Everything is always shifting, and there will inevitably come the day when the sun ceases to rise, when the earth is shrouded in darkness or viciously fragmented into pieces, when there are no waves and no ocean, and everything that we understand as the world around us—our sense of time, our sense of place, our sense of what it means to live—seems to fall apart.

Never forget how fragile and transient we are, how many conditions we need to survive, let alone feel content or happy, and how naïve we are—to think that every day will be the same, and even more so, to think that we will come out being the same as well.