There’s something unique about the way I’m feeling now. It’s a strange feeling, realising that your life is on its way to changing, and that you decide how it does.
That what you do now dictates how what is to come hits you. That how you deal with it depends on you in the moment.
How you choose to feel.
That how you choose to feel can decide whether you pass a hurdle or not. That whether you pass the hurdle or not can turn your world upside down. It can change things.
You can change things.
It’s a strange feeling,
that you’re in charge of your life.
You begin to realise that as every minute passes, it is somehow adding something to the fabric of your existence. Each second is a fibre in the thread of minute, each day a woven strand in the cloth of your life.
What will it be? What shape, what form will it take? Will it mould itself unto others or battle to branch out in scattered ways?
Will the fibres of your thread be strong enough to withstand the weight of the unknown, or will the experience of years prove too ordinary? Too mundane.
How do your threads make for a cloth?
Is the cloth ever done growing?
When will the last thread be woven? Why does it have to end?
These hundreds of thousands of millions of billions of cloths and threads must intertwine,
They must affect
and be affected.
How is it decided?
Is there a large weaver, his spoon in a pot of soup stirring our souls together?
An attraction between charged threads? Moments of electricity being bound together of no autonomy.
Or it is chance?
Threads too long, too silken; cloths too round, too haphazard, catching on to another out of luck.
What makes this intersection permanent?
Are these foreign threads merely transient in the vast cloth of your life or are they now pieces of something bigger than just your cloth? Will they dissolve in the uncertain or prove they were never really foreign at all?
What makes anything permanent?