It has been written. Every story that is to be. Its endings, beginnings and plot twists.
Let us suppose that the trajectory of every atom was set into motion at the beginning of time. Our stories have been printed and bound, yet no one but god has read the final page. Does that give anxiety or relief?
We carry the weight of our lives upon our shoulders. We think ourselves human with the burden of gods. And thus rise our egos, grandiose plans, and righteousness.
I once set sail as the captain of my ship. I captained diligently, measuring my position constantly, adjusting my heading at every hour. Weeks passed. Months passed. Years. Only then did I notice neuroses and anxiety corroding my mind, seizing my steering. Who knew that my ship would continue to sail to its final port without my constant fussing?
We can set our grand designs down now. The path forward has been stitched into the fabric. That fabric which coddles us at birth, wraps us in shared existence, and envelops us at death.