Well of course it does, and has done since the ancients like Plato and the performers before him, despite Sartre’s reversal to promote the bandwagon of existentialism, (existence preceeds essence etc).  As any mystic worth their salt will affirm:  we are nothing before we are something, nothing as in “no form”, no perceptible form or presumption of  boundary.  No edge to define what’s inside or outside.  No useful definitions.  No notions of horizons, whether tantalising or terror inducing.  No nobility or savagery. No arrivals or departures.  No being or non-being.  No culture, ethics or tradition.  No deference to ancestors or deities.  No desire to inspire, no ambition to disrupt.  No race to run, no finish line to cross.  No education or evolution.

Only a knowing which transcends growth, only an understanding which undermines any effort.  Only a vision that precludes improvement.  Only an undertsanding that galaxies, planets, nations, species, atoms and viruses all play their part in producing the Game.  The Game of life that can always be lived and played by any portion of the whole that cares to project.  Project into the density and vibration that form requires to sustain its template as it grows and decays, gathering what is given by the unknown frontiers, where ignorance generates its presiding details.

As form we explore, play and reproduce.  As form we infiltrate the structures assembled by others preceeding us, others that could well have been us, should we care to inspect and uncover the conspiracies of love that inspired the manipulation of matter into complex forms that might sustain the vehicles all can enter and employ.  As form we find thoughts, emotions and motivations, all of which exercise the muscles lying latent, lifting them to exercise their unknown potentials.

And when those potentials reach their peak of expression, which might also be perfection, they pass on from their field of play, leaving space for other forms to find themselves.  And thus species, cultures and planets all pass from interested inspection, leaving only their bones to be exhumed by the ignorant, leaving theories consistent with the current level of form-fitting analysis.

Consciousness knows all these experiments in form can be accessed and exited at a whim that becomes will when external pressure is applied.  That’s the external which becomes real when the internal is inhabited, as it is in the ritual we refer to as birth.  Birth in this world or the next.  Worlds that melt away but never disappear when form is shed, like cloaks in spring, and consciousness is rediscovered by those energies which exited to play another part in the Game.