Determinance | Poem
Fixity of will.
It, it-it-it, 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.