Since The World Began

We are told that everything happens for a reason. Even a falling leaf from a tree in the next field has a reason. Suffering can make a man stronger or bitter, it depends upon him. His character is his destiny. All of us have a reason for being. Sages of all ages have contemplated our true identities and the existence of God. Some questions that probe into the deepest recesses of our psyche: Who am I, we ask ourselves. To the philosophers and poets, we are the sun, the stars, the earth, the wind, the wind. We are everything yet we are nothing. We are the father, the son, the lover, the friend. We are everyone yet we are no one. Are we the sparks from an infinite light? Creations of a Supreme Being with our own freewill? Or are like puppets manipulated by strings, like mortals of Greek myth? Do we have freewill? Is a man the real captain of his soul, the real master of his fate, as it were? To write this piece in a solitary act of freewill. A conscious, deliberate decision. A random act plucked from a number of possible alternatives. To stay home and write or not, or go instead, say, to watch the last full show of a James Bond movie. And to choose, by virtue of a freewill, is the real essence of freedom. Or is it really? What is fate? That is the second scenario. The present act is the consummation of a prophecy already written in the stars? Destined to be, from the moment of birth? A sigh from a silent oracle? The words of a mute prophet? Michelangelo’s Sistine photo courtesy of


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