it is determinance,
an unshakable, infallible
certainty of occurrence—
that it not only has been decided
but that in deciding it has been determined
that it would be, and not only would it be
but it be, has been, and always has it been.
All there is left to be is its experience,
yet its experience requires your determinance.
You ask about the sportsman
who trains, who competes,
who rivals their adversaries.
“Who is the one to win
over the other when the other
can also be the one who won?
Is winning happenstance
or circumstance?”
It, it-it-it,
it is an illusion.
It is unreal and unseen.
It is unknown until known.
You stand there on
the field of competitors and
you take up your arms,
you dual,
you strike,
you are dealt blows,
you whinny with the horses and
grimace with the pain, but
as much as the sport is a game
with its set trials and set times,
you set your place and ready your mark
no different than the projectionist
loading the next canister of film,
rolling the reels of which were directed
without you. This is how it is for exactly
as long as it is.
We run, we lose, we eddy down
into the currents of mundanity
with no set direction but the wind,
until we ship our rudder, till
the chord of our life is struck,
the heart is sound and
the plane of our undetermined infinitude
involutes into the tunnel of our determinance.
From our aimlessness draws forth
a fixity of mind, cannon fodder,
shooting us down the barrel of
our dogged certainty that grows
in its own determinance as the chute
closes in towards the singularity of truth,
the truth that determinance
is the plow of God that
when readied can open any heart
for the harvest of our dreams.
But drive we must to spur these oxen.
Furrow our brows and our fields
that our tarheels not retreat
into complacent sand.
Instead, roil every ember
in the firebox of your soul
that your determinance
be found, be felt, be realized.
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