Whose is the hand that I will hold?

I've been thinking about the Future lately. So many tiny events place us on a cusp, teetering on a precipice leaning towards either a Something or a Nothing; but I think sometimes I fail to realize how opaque the Future really is, except perhaps in a vague way in hindsight. I make so many plans and have so many expectations for what may or may not happen. If things go as planned, I feel a strange victory, as if I had successfully bridled Time, bent Chance to my will and course. If things don't go as planned, I sigh for a moment, mutter a "You never can tell," and immediately begin constructing new plans, new expectations from the rubble. But lately I've been just sitting by, knowing I've set whatever cogs may be in motion, and gazing into the blackness and remembering that I truly do not know, that I can not see, that I am really unable to imagine what will happen. Life is somewhat different from this new vantage point, knowing that the Somethings that may occur will illuminate tiny moments in my past as monumental, and knowing that whatever Nothings will fill in the blanks will cause those other inconsequential moments to slip and sink into the sludge of Time and fading, irrelevant memories. It's fascinating and frustrating, knowing the plans I hold in my pocket are only clumsily drawn maps of places I've never been and have never even heard of, finally beginning to understand that if any portion of their cartography is accurate, it is sheer luck--or a fortunate and often elusive alignment of Wills.

Kingfisher -- Joanna Newsom