I used to run a thousand futures a night, Every fork in the road demanding its right. Each maybe shouting, “Pick me now,” Till my head wore thin from asking how. I mapped every outcome, rehearsed every fall, Tried carrying everything, ended up stalled. Then one small phrase cut through the spree, Didn’t prove a thing—just let me be. It didn’t promise, didn’t decree, Didn’t solve the riddle in front of me. It leaned in quiet, no guarantee, And whispered low, “This might be meant to be.” I don’t hear fate as iron decree, I hear it as mercy for the mind that sees. Too many branches break the tree, So meaning trims what we don’t need. “Meant to be” isn’t losing the wheel, It’s choosing one story the body can feel. Less rehearsal, less regret, One clean line the heart can set. It’s not surrender, it’s not retreat, It’s tailoring life so it fits your feet. When futures split and signals plea, Fate makes clothing out of possibility. Fate is cognitive tailoring, Taking in what’s frayed and flaring. Not prophecy, not destiny, Just fewer seams inside of me. Fate is cognitive tailoring, Wearing the day instead of tearing it. I don’t know where the road will bend, I just know I can move again. Not carved in stone, not set in chrome, Just a fit that lets me walk on home. Meant to be, not carved in stone, Just enough shape to move us on. Frankly… Some truths don’t predict. They reduce the noise.
