This dismal fact is the mark on all things, and creatures: that they pass away, have a transient existence, and in this absolute sense lack reality. They appear for awhile, seem substantial and eventful, but are in truth prolonged mirages. If this were all the story it would be melancholy enough. But it is not. That whence they came, to which they go back, does not pass away. That is the Real, that is the Consciousness which gave the universe, of which we are a part, its existence. Out of that stems this little flower in each life which is the best, highest self. If we search for it and discover it, we recover our origin, return to our source, and as such do not pass away. Yes, the forms are lost in the end but the being within them is not.