The future is always in motion.
Fixed static points belong to the past. Change is a stranger exiled from that familiar land. A much different tale unfolds while marching forward in time. Visions are as variable as weather patterns. Prophecies are not an exact science.
And yet, it often feels like specific outcomes are an outgrowth of fate. Our individual futures have already been written for us as though we are nothing more than non-playable characters trapped inside a simulation.
Are we victims of fate? Does free will truly exist? These are the deep questions that sparked my latest poem below.
One cracked road stretching beyond a sprawling horizon. Where does the pavement end? Where does the mirage begin? No changing directions on a one-way highway. Pedal fully to the metal. Running on fumes alone. Fumes almost past empty. Trapped in a open cage. Flat unbroken plains Wide cloudless skies Invisible bars and wires. Maps, food and water: all endangered species under an unforgiving sun. Does the journey end If the destination is hidden?
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