Of the many things that can be, that can exist, only a few do exist. Only a few come to be. The rest of possibilities remain as just that: possibilities. Every time a choice is made, thousands, millions of possibilities disappear. Possibilities that existed, even if only in theory, and will exist no more if they are incompatible with our choices. So we narrow and narrow our path, until we are left with, literally, no choice. Alternatively, every choice creates, that is the right word, new possibilities that did not exist before and that, through our actions and decisions, now can be. We create a new world with every decision. We close some doors, but we also open others. Every step we take is a decision, even if only a decision to continue forward along a particular path and not another. Doors close and open as we walk, they close and open as we pass, in a rhythmic dance that accompanies us, that mirrors our movements, our changes. A dance of doors… a map of infinite roads, a tapestry with so many threads one can follow, different threads as we walk along. A wave of doors that looks at us, emotionless, inevitable.

What if we don’t choose? If the dance stops. If doors remain open or close. If I don’t choose, aren’t my choices made on my behalf anyway? Aren’t doors opened and closed just the same? If stillness is not an option, then movement is inevitable. Only death closes all doors, at least on this side. I wonder if there will be a music to this door opening and closing. In my mind, this looks a lot like Bach’s piece in Disney’s Fantasia. We impose the rhythm, but the music comes from the doors that close and open, how many of them, in what order. The music of will, of inevitability. The inevitability of choosing. Of changing. And of all the changes that we provoke as a consequence in the world of possibilities. Our decisions cause some notes to be played and others to remain silent. We shape the melody, or the cacophony, that accompanies us as we live. As we choose and change.

Are we really not free to not choose? I guess we can “not choose”, but that does not mean that all possibilities remain open for us. Even if we were free not to choose, we would not remain free to choose anything. Because some possibilities will no longer exist. So, we can not just exist. Like that, to exist and make no decisions and no changes. If decisions are made for us, if our world of possibilities changes around us based on the decisions made by others, then we are also changed, inevitably. The only way to just exist is to stop the wheel. Death. Is it only in death that we simply exist, when no more change is possible? If change precludes absolute equilibrium, by definition, is death the ultimate balance? Or maybe change does not preclude equilibrium, maybe it is precisely what keeps the aeroplane in the air, the force of the air beneath…

And if I can not avoid change, induced by me or by others, then who am I? How am I defined? If I am to change continuously, how am I defined? Is there anything permanent in me? Probably not. I am a music in constant evolution (a much nicer word than change). But not only that. The world that surrounds me and that echoes my music evolves too. And therefore, the echo that it returns is also changing. Even if the music was the same, and it’s not, the way it is listened to and projected back is different. You know nothing…

So what is balance then? If I change constantly and the world around me changes constantly… how are the opposites balanced? They change together… they pull towards them. They dance one around the other, devouring each other, creating and defining each other. They have an influence on the changes we undergo, the decisions we make. Or maybe not. Maybe there are absolute entities that can not be changed, a combination of which shapes our path. Light and darkness, silence and noise, even life and death. Solid rocks that can not be changed based on any decision.

There are no certainties. And even if there were, the concept and the perception of these certainties within me would change. Therefore, there are no certainties for me. Nothing but change. Not everything is possible, but some new things are certainly possible. Look around you, new doors open every day. And other doors close. Every day. Look. The floor changes under my feet. Everything is uncertain. And what of it? Why would this be scarier than stillness? Isn’t constant change another form of stillness anyway? The floor changes under my feet, as does the whole world around me, and it feels like flying.