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 whore
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