Sometimes
Chance comes out of nowhere, popping its head out of the bushes and waving its wand at the sky from a darkened nook you all but forgot to examine. This is when happenings happen. An isolated thunderstorm, a vehicle explosion, a scattering of leaves that brings into light a few scant nuggets of gold. It is the skeptic's curse, these endless outcroppings of fate; when the myriad strands of the world come together, all faith in hopelessness is lost.
You can try to convince yourself, no, there is nothing being said here, everything is scattered, everything is sure. There is no message to look for, nothing to find. You tell yourself these sights and sounds are utterly explainable, completely within reach, stationed snugly on your shelf between a dictionary and a bottle of SoCo.
But when you leave the house for perhaps the only time all day for an appointment you could have canceled, and it starts raining so hard the asphalt melts to drumbeats, the choice deserts you. You have to confront the world on its own terms of cause and meaning. No lack of explanation will pull you through the storm.
I may have gotten very wet, but I'm damned well glad it happened.
You can try to convince yourself, no, there is nothing being said here, everything is scattered, everything is sure. There is no message to look for, nothing to find. You tell yourself these sights and sounds are utterly explainable, completely within reach, stationed snugly on your shelf between a dictionary and a bottle of SoCo.
But when you leave the house for perhaps the only time all day for an appointment you could have canceled, and it starts raining so hard the asphalt melts to drumbeats, the choice deserts you. You have to confront the world on its own terms of cause and meaning. No lack of explanation will pull you through the storm.
I may have gotten very wet, but I'm damned well glad it happened.