The End to My Story

Why do we always think we know the end to our stories? We think about it, plan for it, dream about it, consider it, rush ahead to it, or slow down instead, or meditate on it, contemplate it, try to change it, leave it the same as it is, resist it, the inevitable we think that it is, conform to it or sock it down like a punching bag as though we truly can, yes, we live our daily lives so often thinking we know. We know our future, don't we? Or do we?

White picket fences or none at all, 2.4 kids...