Scheduling

So let us have our laugh; it is enough for just a moment sacrificed to force belief that somewhere an intangible divinely-ordered plan exists, to which we must conform. Dear God, give mercy to my plea that that may not be so! That there is little solid ground on which free will may put down roots already--I shall dignify my entry with a lordly number, cringing as I write, and beating back a nagging, growing certainty that even summoning a doubt is forordained. There's no way out! We all are hypocrites, and must expunge such realistic thinking as we write our grocery lists and then assign them slots within our silly days in order just to fortify our flesh and those elusive pleasure centers lurking there among our bones. But thoughts are stubborn. They keep coming back, reminding me of their entitlement. My to do lists are perishable--reality is not. Even consciousness, I read, may plod ahead of me long past mortality. And I remain advisedly a happy cog in a machine of some beneficent monstrosity I'll never comprehend. ~