'Volley'

Like bodkin-tipped-cloth-yards loosed en masse through the night, toward targets on the same field; our trajectories carry us seemingly so far.

Yet we stem from positions so tightly bound, and in turn depart for ends garbed in such similar raiment. The concept of our respective courses crossing only infrequently and in such fixed fashion; would have me believe the notion of determinism, is void. Life is infinitely more, fluid.

Given that the metaphor loses strength at even first glance, and our sights seem not so firmly set, forever adjusting our bead on objectives in perpetual motion; I am left with naught but a fruitless exercise in logic.

I can’t help but wonder why I allow such trivial notions to wrest so consistently for my attentions. Nor can I be satisfied of the results when the outcomes feel so inconclusive.

Why I hold myself back, when all answers are inherently mine.

'Volley'

Laszlo Totka

Sydney, Australia

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