Who Knows What's Next?

The road is winding ever onward

Like Heraclitus' river;

Never the same, even in repetition.

Every day filled with millions of permutations,

Countless opportunities for what was to have had been different.

Metaphysical musings about the nature of life, Who never reveals her plans or hints at the unfolding of creation,

A muse who inspires herself and follows a map none other can see.

We find ourselves free to act in whatever way we choose.

We find ourselves utterly blind to the bigger picture; 

How those ripples spread across the pond.

Not only our ripples, but everyone else's,

Affecting the course of things.

They shape the choices we're able to make,

And they color the choices left to choose.

We can't find an objective perspective 

Because the whole system is subject to itself.

Must we imagine Sisyphus happy?

Must we throw up our hands like Prometheus, Accepting our fate of "new liver, same eagles?"

We cannot prove that we are free;

But we cannot live as though we are not.

Even standing still is distinct from doing nothing.

We have to make our ripples or drown.

To me, the only choice seems to be kindness.

We don't know what others are going through.

We often don't know who is thriving and who is drowning until it is too late.

So we choose compassion in a cruel world.

We choose grace instead of vengeance, Hospitality instead of xenophobia;

Whatever else we can't affect, we can affect how we treat the people we meet.