sing sing sing

The world changes in infintismally small ways. There are small actions that can echo into avalanche, a tremor in the earth starts as a ripple and becomes a tidal wave. Slowly, slowly, as the echoes build, as the waters shift and grow, this earth can be made anew.

Slowly.

I have to believe that, and likewise have to believe that the world I live in is one that was beyond dreaming a mere ten decades ago. They could not have seen it, the wonders and terrors to come, could not have imagined the shape of the world as it is now.

When I die, I will die in a different world than the one I was born to. Will I be one of those tremors, one of those echoes, one small rock dropped into still waters? I doubt it, but this is not a thing for me to decide. It is not in our stars, nor is it in our selves, but the inscrutable weavings of circumstance, of motivation and counter-motivation, in action and reaction, in the swing of the pendulum and the beat of a butterfly's wings.

Is there a hand that weaves, a will that patterns? It is not for me to know or to say, not in this life. But change is everywhere, all will change whether we will it or not. To throw ourselves against the wave or behind it, and then to build again in its wake, that is what is left to us.