1) Your choices determine your destiny. That is to say your choices resonate through time, both now and for eternity. Your destiny in this sense is both your subjective temporal condition and your objective eternal condition.
2) Choices, when examined from a collective perspective as opposed to an individual perspective, exist as a chaotic system (if you plot choice, you can find topological mixing and dense periodic orbits).
3) Chaotic systems are sensitive to initial conditions. This isn’t to say a chaotic choice system is deterministic. That is to say, a chaotic choice system doesn’t exclude free will, but also doesn’t exclude predestination.
4) God determines initial conditions. God created the universe and breathed his breath into the first man. He set the system in motion and as such determined its initial conditions.
5) Your choices are (at very least) strongly influenced by God.
This is a terribly deist way of looking at things and probably abuses the idea of chaotic systems past its breaking point. But it’s at least some cool sophistry, right?
It comes out stilted
filtered & scripted
when I love you
when I’m happy.
I’m tempted to
borrow tragedy;
the red wall,
the long fall.
The long haul &
the don’t look back
are needle to the
plow to the groove:
peculiar music
of the pastoral
neatly tailored
plot I chose.
In spacetime you’re a four-
dimensioned dimple.
Quite a lot of maths,
but still quite simple.
Haloes when you grin,
there’s no denial.
Two worlds define the
edges of your smile.
The bird bursting from your chest
is a crow, is a dove;
to escape the amniotic cul-de-sac
you go widdershins:
anti-magic engine thrumming:
impossible gravitas.
The beam bursting from your head
is a particle, is a wave;
you are the collapsing form
I cannot unsee;
the antibody lives on:
unapproachable parallel.
Look to windward. There it is. Could have seen it coming; didn’t. Such is life. There it is again, and again, and again. Look to windward though eyes tear up. There is life there no imagination could devise. Look to windward though it is cold. Still there is life there. Least expected places always. Right?
This is how everything is. No shoulder for the pack; the pack is anyhow carried. Passive voice. Active voice. Does it matter? Maybe. Or not. Lack of pronouns. The actors are frozen in place; the board is set. Not playing but being played. Brief bursts of energy. Movement. Choice. Illusion?
Look to windward. Stand still. Wind moves. Or wind stands still. Who moves? Invisible hands; so many.
I would not open the door of your unhappiness unless
there were no other way into the storm, into the night.
I would not enter, myself and the air I bring with me,
into that empty room and stand in a sliver of light unless
there were no other way to gauge your melancholy.
I would not close it behind me unless all the other doors
came unlocked, so that I could test their weathers,
the bluster and shadow of their various altitudes.
I would not open the door of your unhappiness ever,
except to perch beyond it and tell you that the world
is a cold, dark place when you are missing.