Consciousness doesn’t have a mum and dad. It wasn’t born. It doesn’t die.
As the dweller is not the dwelling, the soul is not the body. One is time-bound and limited; the other is timeless and free.
Life is painful. This is the first fact, sounded at birth in groanings too deep for words. If I don’t know this, I’ll devolve into that most coarsened of figures—the pleasure seeker.
Bodies come and go but the life that we are does not die.
Nothing changes until something dies. Or, at the minimum, is definitively ended.