The body is but a vessel. We don’t choose what we are cast adrift on the sea of life in. It may be a sturdy heart of oak ship or it maybe a catamaran of driftwood barely clinging together. Whatever it is isn’t ours to choose.
Who decides? Some higher power? A divine entity? Or is it science, strong, healthy genes from the top of the pool pulling in sunlight, or weak, useless dregs mingled with silt from the bottom?
Some vessels are masters of the sea and plough on undeterred by its storms for a century or more whilst others flounder in cross currents, struggling, thwarted, but hanging on almost lifeless.
We have no choice but to sail in the vessel we are assigned. Some ride the waves: others are trapped.
Then we have the sea of matrimony. There are knaves and harridans aplenty, how to navigate away from these venomous scoundrels and waspish mares?
Love they call it. Charm they call it, but it’s all veneer.
They lure the unsuspecting heart into their web like a black widow spider stowed away on board the vessel, with sugar coated words and deeds and when the weak foolish will of their victim succumbs it is too late, the fangs unsheath and the poor fool is trapped.