Is it a push or a pull?
Is it a push? When we move is it with the momentum of a ship, wind at our back, sails a fluttering? While the destination may never be anything more concrete than the ever-shifting horizon, does it remain a force of our doing propelling us ever forward? Are we responsible for our own arrival?
Or is it a pull? Is there an unseen, unfelt, force yanking us forward? Are there binding webs hooked so deep their movement becomes our movement, that no resistance is truly enough to free us from its influence? Is resistance the best we can do or is resistance in this case as useless as resisting the wind, turning your sails in defiance, stamping your feet? Is it nothing more than a temper tantrum at randomness?
Are we a legion of fools on a deck forever spinning our sails, desperately holding onto the illusion of control? Or should we lean in, become helpless and lose ourselves in the comfort of such helplessness, giving whatever binds us the benefit of the doubt? As if to say, yes, you know best, or why would you pull so hard, why would you yank so ruthlessly, if for no reason.
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