The great dialectic remains between fate and free will. I'm prepared to defend the notion that fate has a bigger hand Without seeing into the future we are unable to change it The forms textures chiaroscuros and chromes are painted into each of us as we descend into the world soul and discover we are not merely posing cameos directed by each other's projections
All souls are evocations, layer upon layer of archetypes each of them prayers and yogas all irreducible fluctious desires
voluptuous nymph or curmudgeon hero or *****
As depth accumulates we give each thing a name we live and unfurl destiny both good and evil This fate already forged into our souls.
Only in destinies weaving finality, even beyond the grave are we melted down like snow in divine rays of effulgent light, and pure spirit