Death, it seems,
was evolutionarily optional.
Microbes are immortal.
Redwoods grow taller and stronger
over the course of centuries.
Lobsters and clams do not age,
are only killed from without,
never within.
Flies and worms in a laboratory
have received a death-ectomy,
removing the senescence gene
and living on.
And so, somewhere, somewhen,
in our vast, mutual
and ancient family tree,
a well-meaning ancestor
must have realized
that survival of the fittest
might not require literal survival;
that true growth might entail
a shedding, not only of skin,
but of our very identity;
that complete and utter transformation
could be our ultimate destiny,
if we will only allow our Selves
to follow evolution
to its logical,
glorious
conclusion.
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