The postmodernists claim that man is little more than a confluence of forces.
Metanarratives absorbed around the age of four
developed in tandem with an ever-changing world.
Old ideas replanted then growing toward the rays of a shifting sun.
Your ideas are not your own.
You're not the only one.
There is no such thing as an original thought.
But the postmodernists are wrong.
A confluence of forces,
I am not.

Existentialism states that a man's life is his to create.
We make our own meaning.
We define the stakes.
Whether a great victory or a tragic loss,
but never merely a leaf being tossed by the wind.
Everyday is a blank page in the novel of our lives,
and we hold the pen.