Fate is a cop-out.
There is no divine plan, no wind of fortune pushing you toward death
Like a gruesome sailboat.
There's no grand path, that, try as you might
You end up stumbling back onto every time you try to flee it.
**You
Make
Your
Own
Destiny.**
Don't **** it up because life gets hard.
Don't give me the fatalistic excuse: "My life was meant to end."
Of course it was.
Look at us all, little nothing's springing into existence
On this tiny planet
Like dust motes in the sun
And then we go dark.
We all live to die, sweetheart.
That doesn't make us dead yet.
You have a pulse, use it.
You have lungs and a brain and tastebuds and fingertips.
Breathe, scream, make something, learn something,
Cook a gourmet meal and relish it,
Read a sordid novel, eat some chocolate,
Watch the sun rise.
You are not fated to die any more than the rest of us.
It is what we do with the space in between that counts.
Don't tell me I've got strings I can't see,
Jerkily dancing through life in directions I don't control.
Don't tell me there are puppeteers plucking threads like harps
Or blind women spinning gold just to cut it off.
We are vast, but tiny.
Nobody cares to control us- we don't mean enough.
There are so many of us, we swarm like ants.
Nothing takes the time to force a plan on us.
You're free. Free, and insignificant.
Realize it. Grow up.
In fact...
Grow up, grow out, grow down...
Just...
Grow.
And lose Fate on the way, lose the excuses.
Lose the indulgence of self hatred, and needless pain.
Focus your suffering like a laser, hone it to a point,
And make it have a point if it has to happen.
If you hurt, hurt big, hurt with purpose,
Hurt so deep that it comes back to brush elbows with Joy like a playful old friend and says,
"Good job, there."
Lose the drama, lose the histrionics, lose the idea that **the only way to be loved
Is to be weak.**
And grow.
There is no Fate.
Fate is simply an excuse for not owning one's existence.
Leave it behind.
*Take your world in your fingers
Like wet clay
And make yourself a life
That fits in every contour of your hands.*
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
Fate is a cop-out.
There is no divine plan, no wind of fortune pushing you toward death
Like a gruesome sailboat.
There's no grand path, that, try as you might
You end up stumbling back onto every time you try to flee it.
**You
Make
Your
Own
Destiny.**
Don't **** it up because life gets hard.
Don't give me the fatalistic excuse: "My life was meant to end."
Of course it was.
Look at us all, little nothing's springing into existence
On this tiny planet
Like dust motes in the sun
And then we go dark.
We all live to die, sweetheart.
That doesn't make us dead yet.
You have a pulse, use it.
You have lungs and a brain and tastebuds and fingertips.
Breathe, scream, make something, learn something,
Cook a gourmet meal and relish it,
Read a sordid novel, eat some chocolate,
Watch the sun rise.
You are not fated to die any more than the rest of us.
It is what we do with the space in between that counts.
Don't tell me I've got strings I can't see,
Jerkily dancing through life in directions I don't control.
Don't tell me there are puppeteers plucking threads like harps
Or blind women spinning gold just to cut it off.
We are vast, but tiny.
Nobody cares to control us- we don't mean enough.
There are so many of us, we swarm like ants.
Nothing takes the time to force a plan on us.
You're free. Free, and insignificant.
Realize it. Grow up.
In fact...
Grow up, grow out, grow down...
Just...
Grow.
And lose Fate on the way, lose the excuses.
Lose the indulgence of self hatred, and needless pain.
Focus your suffering like a laser, hone it to a point,
And make it have a point if it has to happen.
If you hurt, hurt big, hurt with purpose,
Hurt so deep that it comes back to brush elbows with Joy like a playful old friend and says,
"Good job, there."
Lose the drama, lose the histrionics, lose the idea that **the only way to be loved
Is to be weak.**
And grow.
There is no Fate.
Fate is simply an excuse for not owning one's existence.
Leave it behind.
*Take your world in your fingers
Like wet clay
And make yourself a life
That fits in every contour of your hands.*
