Waking Thouhts on Rebirth

The perfect image exists as the reflection of the one who cast it. 

Eventually we realize that we are unsure if we are real, on the level that God considers real. When actually engaging with this thought- this concept of "Do I matter to the one I love?"- a deep discomfort is revealed, not by distracting noise added, but in the silence revealed beneath the clutter of false value definitions. In this uncertainty, one sees oneself clearly, and realizes that attempting to copy this uniqueness is impossible, as it is in every little thing. "Is my uniqueness worth preserving?" becomes the next question: Flaws and all- am I worth keeping? The answer must have been yes up until now, on some level, for I am still here; it is hard to imagine that any of us possess the tools for self-preservation on this level which we can barely conceive of, much less master. Part of being born again is seeing this reflection of helplessness, seeing oneself as a baby in an as of yet unknown realm, which will soon and suddenly overtake this narrative, in the way that being born overtook what came before it. How is faith held in a state of such uncertainty? How can faith exist without such a state of uncertainty? How do eyes recognize the one they love, with so much edified between? These thoughts and more seep into every crevice, as I wake and start my day.