It is the cruelest irony nature can afford: we are born dependant, yet we die alone.
In birth, there is unity. A cosmic symbiosis of form and soul, manifest as true creation. This is, in truth, the most wonderful and perfect moment of our existence. This is the moment when we are truly connected to our own kin.
When we are born, the ties are severed. Bloody, naked, scared, confused: we enter the world as we leave. In our fury to aquiesce to this right to exist, we forfeit our ties to true comfort and joy; we cut off our second most innate privilege, the right to die.
Now we are doomed to exist. We are damned to walk this mortal plan until we die. We seek comfort to ease our interminable demise, a soul to share our misery with, to stand by us in our suffering, to assure us that our own wretched mortality isn't a sin of our nature, but a necessary contribution to a vast and entropic world.
Tragic irony.
The worm that thinks itself a king is reduced to food and sustenance for the god that knows it is a fool.