Out of the infinite variability that constitutes the potentiality of the future, out of the multiplicity of the many worlds that coexist parallel and pristine, you’ve got to narrow it all down to one: one choice, one place, one determination. It’s like the vision of god as one descendant into the fractured multiplicity of material existence, mirrored in the microcosm of your little world, each moment, this stand, this decision, this displacement of all the other possibilities in favor of a moment’s will.
Of course, everything that you do is some part of a cosmic vision, and though you are granted infinite variable self-choice and will, your course is like the trail of water that descends a rocky hillside down to the river—one way or another, gravity guides you to your wellspring, your purpose, your given direction. Though you could go this way or that in any given moment—eddied into a stagnant pool, perhaps, to percolate into the soil, or caught up into the tendrils of a thirsty tree—in the end, you are a part of a whole system of saturation that serves the goal and function of the greater purpose no matter where you turn, no matter whether you stay or go or will or no.
But still. To play at god even in the small confines of your own personal choice in direction can be a frightening occupation. How to choose? By what grounds? By what randomized set of desires, goals, descriptions?
Which city, which town, which municipality, which state? Where will you live? How can you know how you can live there until you move there and try?
It is times like these that you understand the innate human tendency to be led. How much more convenient it is to have guideposts and fences, gently directing you into a commonly assured fit, a manufactured contentment. A family patriarch who determines what career path you will follow. A professor who takes you under their wing. A lover who firmly puts their foot down. THIS way. Choose this. Offering you either embrace, or rejection. Reject them, and turn away oppositely into another direction that comforts just the same in its inevitability of need.
So which voice within yourself, then, will you follow? You take on the voices of each prospective city, calling out the luring wares, the multidimensional facets of descending there, landing your hope and energy and body there.
I must be a studied consumer, a smart purchaser of my own future. I must think through where I might possibly want to go. Which career, which business, which graduate program, which river, which ocean, which political majority, which crime rate, which housing cost. . . which sand speculated speck of a clear-eyed dream will you feel, deep within, to be manifestly necessary, appropriately situated within the embedded heart of your hope, representative and symbolic of the love that you wish to grow, the life that you wish to expand, the vision that you wish to nurture into reality, into the grounded body of flashing light that is this city that will shape you, mold you—or that you will take into the palm of your heart and mesh into the stream that is your absolute becoming?
To fall into this glove of motion like a goat down and up the rocks, like Coltrane up and down the scales, ascendant, descendant, picking through the shadows with a light that makes a trail into heaven through the spine of every word combined, every aspirant thought flashed into a connecting, consuming vision. Does it matter where we go? We could go anywhere. We can only come back to this, here, ourselves awakening into the terrible beauty that is ourselves in the midst of an ocean of strangers, our selves cast off lonely and bickering into the night to find out what was here all along, within ourselves.
Home, of course, is always there. I know it is there. And so I can go where I must go, where I will go, where I choose to go. I’ve just got to whittle away this thought a little more, until there is no thought left and only force of movement in its stead.