The Ocean of Options

Tried to verbalise one of the ways in which I picture the formation of events in my mind, sounds closer to the ramblings of a madman but that might not be so far from the truth.

The rope of reality coils it's way through time,
As a snake drags it's weight through the mud,
Fibres of potential dance pirouettes round one another,
As The Weaver of Fate ponders which are to intertwine,
And which are to separate,
Which are to bond irreversibly and which are to be cast aside, forgotten
And as the loom spins, so too do the hands of the chronometer
Every infinitesimal motion the result of a hundred tiny motions
Each themselves the result of a thousand thousand more motions
And each of those of a thousand thousand more,
Thusly the clock stands as a metaphor for the very thing which it seeks to tame and measure;
Time, or rather the progression of events.
Every single potential instance to have splintered itself upon the timeline of existence is a rippling, finely-wrought tapestry of further potentialities,
Of 'could-have's and 'would-have's discarded in favour of whatever eventuality is most conducive to the great plan
If such a plan exists
A roiling, endless ocean of destinies waiting to fulfil their own micro-destinies
An interesting concept, destinies with destinies
The destiny of so many destinies is for them to never be pulled and stretched and spun into fruition
So they continue to drift in the aether,
But what becomes of these discarded destinies? What of these neverborn futures?
Perhaps ours is not the only rope being forged across the sea of promise;
Perhaps others flow into existence parallel to ours, maybe even pointing their prows to a different shore
They might collect our discarded potentials and pull them along, incorporating them into their own tale
Or simply brush them aside as they push onwards on their (in?)dependent journeys.
The beauty of this ocean of potential is that the very concept itself is a single potential amongst an ocean of it's own,
Equally as magnificent and significant and meaningless as every other event on every other hierarchy of potential,
It creates a wonderful diagram in my head, semi-algorythmic patterns and roaring currents of colour, cascading tendrils of truth and prophecy warring for their place in the cosmic scheme,
Prediction and estimation curdling to a bubbling stew of uncertainty,
Neutralised by fact and reason as the formula combines in a glorious exothermic reaction,
Propelling this freshly-crafted reality forth to join the rope as so many millions and billions and trillions have done before it.
Beautiful.
But surely this reaction requires a catalyst or reagent to occur.
Surely it requires something beyond our understanding.