Sometimes I am convinced that life chooses you. I flirted with the idea that we choose life but never quite lived this idea. In French, I’d say, j’ai jamais assumé.
Look around, life has chosen those who were born in war or in peril, those who were born to irresponsible parents, those who were given life because choice was not given. Life has chosen those who had an ease in life as if they were born to do what they do, to be loved and given it without questions.
We choose life, how we take the chances we were given and made them into ours. We choose to love and it’s consequences, to hate and its pain, to give and leave ourselves bare and to receive and live in its promises.
And sometimes, we pretend we can choose life. We play the role as a great actor can and move things around as if it makes a difference when it changes nothing in its eventuality. A time and a place, even if time changes, the place is the same.
So do we choose or be chosen? We are already chosen and an end written. What is left is the description. Will it be beautiful or plain, war and peace or sense and sensibility? Can we really choose when life throws all kinds of curve balls? I don’t know. Maybe we can in our mind. Because there, is the house of all possibilities where good trumps evil, kindness begat kindness, love is reality and acceptance need not be asked.
In my secret garden, all lives have a purpose, all beautiful abound, all shapes and sizes and colours, all in their place, a billion pieces of puzzle a beautiful ensemble. If I can choose. So why has the one who can hasn’t?