Whose destiny is it?



Who gets to decide?

Is it you, or me?

Or is it someone else?

And if there's someone watching me

From far away and yet so close

With powers staying out of reach

Beyond our grasping, mortal hands

Then how can any person say

That they are noble, or are not?

And if you say that destiny

Is merely having your story written

Before it ever happens,

Then why do we keep on living?

Is it right to keep our destinies secrets?

If the only purpose

Of not knowing

Is to feel a feeling of false control

Then is my life a lie?

Or am I even able to think

Without some One telling that part too.

And I am just a puppet

For some One more powerful than me.

Have I to hope?

To pray?

To beg?

To have my heart's desires?

Or is my story already done

The last chapter




Why should I live, should I play along?

Why can't anything I do be mine?

Any desire could be planted,

Any thought could be planned

I will never be myself, but somebody else!

Whose whims are dependent on their creator

Whose mind is as false as a lie

And if I live, and think these things

Then what is meant for me?



Or is this too, only a lie?

All these thoughts a lie

But what is destiny!

I must know!

Is there a point to what I have been through?

Is there some conclusion hanging on the horizon?

I am nothing.

Not real.

And why am I allowed to know.

Because it would be "wrong"?

Because it would be "untruthful"?

I am someone else's idea of me,

Someone else's perception!

A whim!

And if you were told by someone you believed

That you were no more real than ink,

And pressed paper,

And the mind of one with too much time

And a fancy for his own turns of phrase

Would you not feel similarly betrayed?

If I was ever real once, I am not now!

I do not truly breathe on the page…

I am not real.

~ "Drizzt Do'urden"