On the busy floor of life and death stood a man Against the odds this man stood A slender man A well groomed man Who wore a coat A coat of wool A sheep's coat. Against the odds This man stood among the wolves motionless He held an umbrella in his hand. This umbrella... it stopped not rain it stopped not sun of the volatile weather but in his hand the man held this umbrella against the odds in volatile weather he stood slender well groomed wearing his coat his sheep's coat among the wolves motionless on the busy floor of life and death against the odds as he traded to the final bell
Probability isn’t the luck it deserves for wanting desperately to be noticed by any appeals. Generating new focuses never thought possible. If so… Who is the recipient? Who is the lawmaker? Who being the justice department? Goods to making essential markers on productive velocities. Justification is outweighed by department alone. Growing ever scarcer without benefiting attitudes in place. Conjecturing solvent pleasures across many fields. Fields of accessory dependents ensuring a collective term is agreeable. Except, what if probability is outweighed not by something further from its own attitude? What if it can’t benefit itself? In question, becoming misshaped, mispronounced, or misinterpreted. Depending on who’s right, or who’s wrong shouldn’t matter until claims are assured. Propagating across the many fields of accessory dependents. Dependents outweighing the logic one is misshaped by. Demonstrating probabilities mispronouncing sense of terms for oneself. Wrapping up in a crumbled conjecture. Propagating a newer field of already surveyed products. Truth is in the stream that propagates those fields. Accessory moments dependent on gaining tension through the rise of the recipient. That’s the only way probability will ever learn. Hence why it shuts down if it ever involved itself. Itself without its own recipient. Its own justice department. Lawmaker without any dependent ideas would ever appeal to its own logical making, if it’s never dependent on itself. Only flashing the accessory dependent on other influences. Influences going way down the line of certainties without pleasure. Urges relapse. Furthering its own clustered rut! One without mistakes diverging deeper into uncertainties. Taking risks isn’t noticeable. When probability taking risks enough to (blush) down the line of certainties without an aim involved. Scattering their rut from within. But how does it involve probability? It doesn’t. Probability is the representation of how one constant judge itself for pleasure. When pleasurable actions are dependent with a blank impression never sought out. To focused on probability. When probability isn’t fruitful by its own design either. Only way it works. Never looking back in itself. A reflection of tempted attitudes fluttering in a swift, but rigid wind. Wind never tempted by its own sway. If one is to admit what they aren’t even aware of changing. Another shutdown happens! Justifications for probabilities own reckoning depends on other solvents. Solvents who don’t even understand the probabilities of there own life makings. Able to learn what is dependent onto others. Never within themselves directing their starry performance. What happens when things are finally noticeable within probabilities that will exceed probable actions of the force that dictates fates majority complexes? Complexes without variety. Varieties misshaped by mishappenings of trust. Which includes a basic awareness of some factor never hesitating to judge within the core of being itself. A view fate designs in its weapon of probability very well. What is fate up to…? Never can guess when probability shuts down all appliances out of contact with no one but itself left in the dark. Probability is. Everything has just become disowned. Fate exchanging glances with itself for one last second, before rapping up this little diverse expression. Pinpointing its weapon of probability without knowing why that is? Hinting at fate not being the only recipient to follow in its weapons obstructed desires.
Probability without luck is forever undetermined. Having faith in itself, will redeem the actuality of actions placed without words. Luck? Faith? Lots of hints one hasn't fully realized.
A life away You intertwined our fingers And whisper, this is fate It cannot be by chance.
But little do you know, There is no guiding hand We are a combination Of one path that we took And the rest that were not taken And in this very moment I read a book in a café I watch a movie from my bed I ski across the Alps I breathe your scent Mingled with the aromas Of coffee, sleep and freshly packed snow And of many, many more And yet The braid made by our fingers Is duplicated countless times Through all these permutations
You see The odds were therefore in our favor Alas, no mysticism here What you call fate, is chance The guiding hand of nature.
The 8th installment in this series of poems inspired by physics (for background, see the first in the series).
Fun fact: In my native tongue, "fate" and "chance" are expressed by the same word (an auto-antonym).
For further reading: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fokker%E2%80%93Planck_equation (this is an awfully technical description to my taste, that misses the essence and philosophy of the theory - I may rewrite it on wikipedia somday)
I dream of a dream that dreams of me And in this dream is only me. Only me, and yet it seems, This dream begins so differently. A man is standing where I stood Beneath a lamp post wearing a hood. I approached this man to understand Who this man could be. I remove the hood just to see This unknown man is actually me.
Me in every way, and yet, in every way, he's not. Same nose. Same ears. Same face and eyes But it was the details that gave me the most surprise. Like looking in a ***** mirror, The imperfections were growing clearer, This me that isn't me. From the void beyond the lamp Came more of me. Me with scars. Me with blue eyes. Me with long hair. Me, a female. Me, a radical. Me with apathy. Me with confidence. Me, missing limbs. Me, defeated. Me, triumphant. Me, me, me.
All of me here at the same time, Separated by choices we made Or choices made for us. We all looked into our familiar stares Awaiting answers that never came. An endless sea of me With so many possibilities, But we all go separate ways.