This is not Augustine's Confession

Perhaps I have relied too heavily on the notion of determinism to reflect upon every future event, hence tried to find answers where there are none. So to sum it all up, I actually know nothing.
That is the foundation I stand on - a quicksand. And what lies beneath me is that slow death that will finish its destination, eventually. Now. Am I suggesting that it is fatalism then? No. But if the trajectory of our birth to death is fatalism, within that is not determinalism. It can be anxiety, desire or despair, but it is not purely it is. I find then only one possibility left - chance.

What are my chances?

It is they are.
there are in front of me (behind me too) many chances/possibilities.
That is the reason for my melancholy - an indifferent reaction/resistance to movement, work or destination. I cannot go on. But I have to go on.

So if you know what I mean, then you probably find yourself facing the front but moving downwards as well.
I cannot experience out of time and space.
And so the anxiety I have of future time and space is deep. It is that gaze that I cannot turn my head away from. If I ever do that, it is the Orpheus impatience that will certainly be my regret. Or even my death.
If I should pursue my escape so complacently, my waxed wings will melt and surely I will fall.
Either way, death pursues me quicker than my escape.

What do I have left? This foolish thing called Will. That does nothing except to be ego-centric.
That sees nothing except with my eyes.
That hears nothing except with my ears.
That tastes nothing except with my mouth.
That feels nothing except with my skin.
that writes nothing except with my fingers.

How easy it is to be so wrong. How easy it is to just be in the moment and ignore the possibility that it will never be the way our pathetic minds hope for.

what is left is the profound and simple thing call faith - and I wish what I have is a faith on nothing.

The faith that what chance I take, is the chance down the narrow path.

these mediatations still don't give me the courage. when shall I really stop writing...