I sometimes feel like a log floating in a current on a river downstream toward a sawmill. Often the current moves fast and at other times… slow. I can’t control the current as it moves inexorably in that one direction… relentless… occasionally rushing in turmoil and then meandering in eddies of calm, but always moving onward… never backward and never ceasing.
As I continue to move on my ride through time and space, I struggle through the rough water and enjoy the calm water, but always fully aware of what lies before me. I’m not the only log in this river and like most of the others I speculate… I wonder what awaits me after the sawmill… will I end up as a piece of fine furniture in a beautiful mansion… maybe a museum… or perhaps merely a heap of pallets to be used to move things… or worse… woodchips on someone’s lawn? I don’t know and though some of the other logs convince themselves that they know what lies ahead, as much as I’d like to do that, I know that I’d only be creating a false sense of security for myself in spite of all my constructs and logical syllogisms. My fate, like theirs, is unknowable and their faith in what lies ahead will not alter the actual fate that awaits them… and me at river’s end.