Destiny

Tomorrow,
Will be written;
Believe in it.

Inasmuch as today
Was the pen you held,
And yesterday, the ink welling,
Your life is only paper.

Today dawned
Already scrawled
On the wind.

What news
There was of it
Promised you a world
In glossed-over colour,
All of it retouched,
All of it, tomorrow.

I do not believe
Your ambition to be someone,
Will make any difference
Nor do more than scratch
The scored surface
Of the lacerated years.

It will not even
Endure the abrasion
Of their passing.

© BH, 2018

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Pessimistic, I know. But we live in a time of exceptionalism where our specialness, our uniqueness, seems to be fundamentally misunderstood. There’s an expectation that by sheer ambition we acheive success. As if determination, sheer will, is all it takes.

Of course, we are special but that requires that we accept it and continue to cut wood and carry water, as if we were ordinary. Because we are ordinary. Otherwise hubris whittles away whatever good our specialness confers. 

And there are no guarantees. Rising above the common herd is as much about the specific gravity of shite as it is about ability. In any case, inviting acclaim and its trappings is a karmic disaster. Those who aspire to greatness are the least fitted to have it.

There’s no point in waiting for destiny. Just do what good you can for its own sake. 

Most of the time what we do doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. But who cares?