What Atrophies and What Endures
Why decay might be the signature of the physical world
In most metaphysical frameworks, the difference between the physical and the non-physical is usually described in terms of density, vibration, or even moral purity. But here’s a sharper and more pragmatic way to draw the line: only the physical decays.
Atrophy is the clearest marker of material existence. Muscles weaken, metals rust, stars burn out. Everything in the physical domain is subject to entropy. Given enough time, even the most stable matter falls apart. This isn’t just poetic, it’s physics. The Second Law of Thermodynamics ensures that systems in the physical world move from order to disorder unless energy is constantly supplied to maintain them. That’s the price of existing here.
Now compare this to the non-physical. In spiritual traditions, whether we’re talking about astral realms, archetypal forms, divine intellects, or even Platonic ideals, there’s no decay. The number 7 doesn’t degrade. An idea doesn’t rot. A memory might fade in your brain, but not in the collective unconscious, not in the Akashic records, not in the mythic strata that thinkers like Jung, Hillman, or Gebser hinted at. Non-physical structures may evolve, mutate, or reconfigure, but they don’t atrophy.
This distinction reframes our relationship to time. In the physical world, time is tyrannical. Everything has a before and after, a peak and a decline. But in the non-physical, time can become cyclical, symbolic, or even irrelevant. That’s why dreams, rituals, and inner journeys often feel timeless. They take place in dimensions that don’t decay.
You could think of it like this:
In the physical world, existence is leased, not owned.
In the non-physical, existence is native.
Which also means: the moment something becomes subject to decay, it has crossed a threshold into embodiment. It has entered the field where it will eventually break down, even if slowly. That’s not a flaw, it’s a feature. Atrophy makes the physical real. It anchors what would otherwise be ephemeral.
This lens might also help us understand why physical life feels so intense. We’re not just alive, we’re running out. Energy, attention, beauty, youth, strength, memory: all of it fading. And this fading sharpens the meaning of every moment. It makes love urgent. It makes art necessary. It makes our small lives feel like fragments of something immortal trapped in a crumbling vessel.
And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe the realm of decay isn’t a punishment but a crucible. A plane where timeless things learn what it means to lose, and therefore, what it means to care.