The winds of fate are deceiving. When they blow against his back, pushing him forward, a man presumes his success to be a credit to himself. When they blow him in the opposite direction, so that he feels he is moving backwards against his intent, he growls in irritation and releases out the furies of his discontent. All men want to believe in this illusion, that they are, or nevertheless can be, masters of their own fate. Their expectations grow according to their luck, chance and the momentum of many things that predate, overshadow, and outrank any merit that men possess of their own right. But he never wants to hear this, for to let this realization sink into his very bones would stir his heart into what seems to be an uncertain domain. So men cling to expectations for they seek out certainties that allay fears, calm nerves, and satiate the desperate need they have to feel secure amidst the social universe of unfolding twists and turns. Reality is a dish best served as yesterday’s leftovers. They were taught to believe in mere pretend, to live in daydreams, and so let that sweet pillow buffer reality for yet another day.