ramblings of a driftwood nature

I sat on a beach with a bonfire in front of me and felt the smoothness of a piece of driftwood between my thumb and forefinger. It was far from rigid and more a depiction of life and winding paths. Maybe drifters become softer on the edges with time. Floating along the waters and piling up on shore where fate determines if you'll be burned at the hands or not.

Sitting on a dock with the winds wafting through my hair, waiting for the fates or self to decide, can't help but think maybe all this molding has taken a shape but was repeatedly beaten down by the hands of some shore land that snatched me up from a float. Grabbed a hold and decided what I was, like a cloud formation or an ink blot. You look like this, they said and threw me into the fire.

And maybe driftwood can't determine it's own fate, just be one with the waters and allow the flow into what's next and become smoother with time and experience...