My pen flows over the paper, the thoughts unclear, but the need compelling to write a letter, forming an unseen connection with the recipient. Others see a lone woman writing, but I’m not alone, I’m talking albeit more of a monologue, but even that gives me pause as I see a mouth curl, a nose wrinkle in irritation at what I’ve written. Who would I be if it wasn’t for the people in my life who have touched me? Shaped me. In anger, sorrow, love, joy, hope. The eternal question, is it all neatly laid out or a random series of events. Another paradox I struggle with. I like the randomness of it (3 shuffles sort of gives the game away) but yet, there is a strong sense of what is right, so how random is it. Perhaps movies with alternate endings, except you have choices at every step like those infernal build as you go along stories that drive me insane. Crossroads, different directions to take, each one leading you to another series of roads, right, left, up, down… An endless map, already drawn, the randomness limited to the choices you make on your journey. Is that truly random, or a mere calculated risk? Or could a meteor come crashing down and obliterate the map. Destroying life, creating life. Is this new life then utterly random, or again the choices you make pre-destined. Any gambler will tell you there will be a system to beat the odds, win against the house. Art imitating life?
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