Containment of sorts with what you have, want, and will manufacture in your near future, the probability, you see, is the chainmail of one’s existence—for it creates an inseparable goal in the blight of one’s focus. The near future is at the time which probability stands at its nearest to creating that which one has teamed into focus.
But the branch thereof that stands just outside this focus, this continuity of thought, time, and space which you haven’t conquered or yet sought, this is the blight of one’s existence, a forager to boot, which makes it necessary for defense and defense mechanisms of the mind, heart, and soul.
For in defense you hope to find All that has created what is either in error, or in subjugation to Another who can make it right. In essence, you make what you find and you find what you make. And this chainmail which I spoke of, the defense, you see, this is the blight of every man’s existence, his hope shattered, if you will, that he must bear such discouraging news, or make the last call, or do and impart any of the other defensive measures he must.
For we all yearn for our defenses to set us free, but that, they do not.