The red string of fate, tangled, yet defined.
Ink before pen; the line writes itself.
Choices unreal–merely illusion.
To fight the current would be but to carve the path.
The string will unravel, as does sanity.
Maybe it will change?–no, it won’t.
How curious it is: to want so bad for something that will never happen and to push so fiercely against the inevitable.
Surely if something were different it could,
but it’s not.
Yet, perseverance does not leave naturally.
Try,
try,
and try again.
That is all you will do.
That is all you can do.
That is all that can be done.