fated to believe in freedom
Suppose life is performance scripted by fate, every state flowing from the one before. No farther fetched than The End as fiction, whose grand deception is dying equals death.
I plan to die and wake the instant after, a dreamless sleeper to the passage of time. Not inclined to dread the finale, whether as performer I can recall it all—or at all.
And when the great cycle rolls around again ( how, not when ) there will I be by birth. Earthen wet ware: unaware of my part at the heart of a role held over for ever.
Incarnate as I am, not a reincarnation of me, there’s irony imagining I may open any door that leads once more to my dressing room. Doomed to believe choice makes a difference.
( For Rhett, happy LX )
