As its end approached, the phoenix fashioned a nest of aromatic boughs and spices, set it on fire, and was consumed in the flames.

It was like a "conscious" action. A natural one. Or, better say, a normal process for someone who feels nature's logic and operating principles. A move born by the unconscious knowledge that there is no life without death, that circles open and close, that periodic deconstruction is necessary.

How many times we do that during a lifecycle on this spherical scenery? Many, I think, but we usually do it because we are forced by circumstances, not because we choose it.

We haven't reached phoenix's wisdom yet.

We will. : )