Free Will
You can't tell someone how
to live their life, you can't
even hope to understand
the primal, magnificent
forces, as ancient as
the person themself,
that sometimes rage in
opposing directions like
tsunamis or hurricanes,
or that sometimes thrum
deep beneath a still surface,
a green pond reflecting heat.
Forces that can drive a person
to race headlong toward pain,
or harden into stone, paralyzed
and unreachable, folded
within the black core.
The Titans within
us are ours
to make peace with
or to master as we can, alone.
Their language is one we have
written, hummed to ourselves
since childhood, sometimes
hiding in dark places,
sometimes dancing
in the streets.
Who could
translate words
so old, so deeply
rooted, so specific
to their source? What's
the word for the fears that
close the blinds, or the hope
that spots the open path?
These are the sounds
that only one throat
can utter, and they
invoke one life
which is not
ours.
They are not our words.
This is not our story to tell.
It's tempting to imagine
that one could choose
how someone else
lives, to make
their decisions and
control the outcomes.
To define the terms.
But to hold such terrible
power would be to hold
the knife that cuts out
a tongue, to imprison
another in impotent silence.
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