we triangulate awareness, wrist to elbow to hip, ankle to knee to groin, and begin to comprehend that the nadis we barely comprehend—the internal network of highways and byways yogi mapped out millennia ago—are themselves sheaths of three: tamas, rajas, sattva; Brahma, Vishnu, Siva; creation, stasis, destruction; father, son, holy smoke. Yogis have eternally been fascinated by decomposition and recomposition. Pathologists too.
“No problem in forensic science has been investigated more, and understood less, than the post-mortem interval,” that Jan 31, 2016 article explained, pointing to the work of a researcher “eager to know more about the moment when the relative sterility within our skulls is breached by organisms contributing to our decay. Bodies found decomposing for days often contained intact hearts and lungs and discernible livers and kidneys. ‘You open the skull and the brain has turned into pea soup,’ he said. ‘It’s remarkable. You often find in people, even when their abdominal organs are recognizable, that the brain has liquefied. What drives that?’
Brain pea soup, sans electricity of consciousness. My collection of woes and your litany of joys stew into consciousness as our bodies nourish the bugs that feed the next container of consciousness.
"All beings are unmanifested in their beginning, manifested in their medium stage, and unmanifested in their end. What is there in this to grieve over?" (Bhagavad Gita, Ch 2 V 28)
Satin eye pillows have nothing to do with it.