these webs resemble a staircase with no railing.
according to greek mythology there are these three sisters known as The FATES or Moirae. There was Clotho who spins the thread, Lachesis who decides how long it is, and Atropos who cuts it. think of these oracles as spiders and that the webs unto which they weave are perhaps the nets to where no matter the destination we fall into they catch us. seeing as they are the ones who control our destinies and every move you make is woven into this web. as we climb these stairs we often climb so high and sometimes run so fast that when we fall so hard the web breaks and there we lay curled up, helpless, caught red handed in the field of rushes, reaping what is was that we had sown. being as we were all given the privilege of free will we can play the apportioner as we draw ever close to the inevitable. with each passing day our souls stumble across these wandering events and they are then soiled within our minds. what happened to us yesterday quite possibly happens to another miles from where our coordinates lie. presuming that everyday we ride this ferriswheel, everyday partaking in this circle of events, everyday rolling just a little further through the carnival until we reach the next city. we ride as if this ferris-wheel was just a rock rolling down a hill waiting for a level plain to stroll across. enjoying the ride is the best mindset one can be in. many rocks seem to roll down hills not paying attention to which direction they roll in. they tend to find themselves falling even faster and without as much friction, perhaps like they have been given wings and are soaring, skipping further down the roadway. as to where others misinterpret this feeling of ecstasy and when they open their eyes see that they are not floating and are actually descending, they crash into the shorelines furthest from the divine beaches unto so many wish to walk upon. like the many waves crashing against the rocks that form the foundation of a lighthouse so many feelings, so many unforeseen events come our ways. one day we will have lighthouses that no longer have revolving bulbs but perhaps ones that shine light forth in every direction gracing ever reachable surface with light. allowing whatever ships that pass seeking refuge will we recognized and understood for the light helps to show the true colors and no longer allows light to be separate from dark, but yet for a gray area to be more cream than anything else. for white is the purest of pure and black is just a color made for definition and to help with developing more perspectives allowing greater understanding. for white is still an impressionable color taking on the attributes of whatever passes through it. like a white cloth being drug across the desert, through a rainforest, across the mountains, and into a sidewalk art gallery caught in the rain without tents and without deference.