Of worms and chaff

There's something about "rising" that makes me stop and wonder. The sun rising over the horizon, a monarch butterfly rising out of its chrysalis, a loaf of bread rising in the oven. There's this whiff of otherworldliness to the act of rising that I just can't seem to put my finger on. Its almost as if it this process of rising is not meant to happen. That somehow it just doesn't fit in this world. Contrary to what my dear wife claims (and exclaims), I am not a pessimist. I consider myself, for lack of a better phrase, a critical realist. And my experience (short as it may be) weaves a narrative of this world, this mortal coil, as the bard puts it, winding down.. drowning.. imploding on itself. The Psalmist was right when he said that thousands fall on one side, only to be worsened by tens of thousands falling on the other. In the midst of so much falling, is my analysis of "rising" being odd, peculiar and downright ridiculous that far-stretched? I