Today I am musing on the deeper reasons that we make the life decisions we make. On the surface a general sort of logic prevails. Yet deep within stormy channels, karma carries us toward our destiny. Fate is an interplay of choice and chance. In the end, fortune and fate become a weave; a tapestry of our lives.
"Who know not love from amity, Nor my reported self from me; A fair fit gift is this, meseems, You give -- this withering flower of dreams. "O frankly fickle, and fickly true, Do you know what the days will do to you? To your love and you what the days will do, O frankly fickle, and fickly true? "You have loved me, Fair, three lives -- or days: 'Twill pass with the passing of my face. But where I go, your face goes too, To watch lest I play false to you. "I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, Knowing well when certain years are over You vanish from me to another; Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother. "So, frankly fickle, and fickly true! For my brief life while I take from you This token, fair and fit, meseems, For me -- this withering flower of dreams." The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: The goodly grain and the sun-flushed sleeper The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper. I hang 'mid men my needless head, And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper Time shall reap, but after the reaper The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper. Francis Thompson
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