Destiny is such a strange thing
Some of us take the same paths
Twenty more are walking
All in a hurry to pass
The rest, and surge ahead
Treading on footsteps still fresh
Where the dust has not even settled yet
Repeating victories of our own imagining
But some of us stop, and
Carve roads of our own
Eschewing the rest, to
Where none existed
Hewn out of rock and stone
Scraggling through impassable terrains
Struggling to stand, then walk alone
Which is destiny?
Is the man who walks the beaten path
a man who cannot see?
If I burrow through a mountain for
My whole life
Is that foresight? Or tunnel vision?
What if the stream dries, halfway home
Before it reaches its destination?
Was that my part, or is carrying the pennant ahead, it?
How much is foretold? How much writ?
How much of myself do I follow,
what part do I create
What fraction is preordained, what value self made?
Have I chiselled myself for greater things
Or has Fate?
Because there are footprints behind me
And nothingness where I push through to
Destiny, you are a strange thing
And I don’t know, whether
Ambition or folly are winning,
But how much of this is me
And how much you?
I ask to give credit, I ask to lay blame. For every decision I chose to take, I can count two that I had to take- and even with my choices, where did the choices come from?
Who am I, to plan and scheme and chart my future? I don’t even know what I’ll have for dinner tomorrow night. Every time you switch the TV on, you hear of so-and-so number of people who were killed by an attack or killed in a retaliation. Did they decide to become a statistic? Did someone make them a statistic? Who made them a number? Am I a number, are you?
And what have I done, that I was allowed to live, and agonise over stupid things like what shoes I should wear today, when in some corner of this human hive, someone looked at the sky with flickering life for the last time? Am I worth more than them? I know I’m not. Luck, merest chance keeps us alive. Something unidentifiable keeps us alive. Master of my fate, captain of my soul- really?
I think not.
Whether or not you choose to believe in a higher power, believe in this. You are inches away of from being a statistic. You are a passenger, you are evanescent, you are inconsequential, you are mortal. You are small.
But you are not weak.
We choose what we leave behind. Even if we do not choose our options, we have some control over our choices. We are all here, and we are all leaving, sooner or later.
Choose what you will leave behind. That much, I think, is left to us to see. That much is not just destiny.
Love, love, and light,