Beauty in Disintegration

       At our grandparents house I was happiest to have discovered a stack of books by Enid Blyton in a loft, belonging to our estranged maternal Uncle.  They allowed me to escape and imagine and devour new words.  I was happy also, when my sister and I sat in the rain one day tearing a piece of paper to shreds at our home-home.  Mesmerized by the changing texture of the fibers.  Our mother saw us, and let us be (bless her!).  There was another day when we sat in the front yard digging up mud, mixing it up with water and creating little objects. We let them dry in the sun, and were surprised that they became dust once more.  That is the final destiny of all things.  Therefore our composition is the composition of other things, alive or not.  And hence, I suspect the love in us later becomes the love in other things.  Is it possible that when everything falls apart, the love we have stays intact?