On Turning Off the Receiver

I received an email that simply said: 

"You wrote this." 

And quoted me.

(Italics the sender's.)

Sometimes randomness is out of the question.  

Isn't that silly? 

How are the random times measured to be "some" times instead of "most" or a "few" in the grand scheme of things?

Who is scheming us? 

Isn't an act deemed random the manifestation of the question itself?

Sometimes a random act is a pleasant surprise, a winking coincidence, an answer in blinding light and warm reception. Logic, sense.

Sometimes a random act is violent, and challenging, and overwhelming, and paralysing. Sometimes we are unable to explain the cause of the effect, even in our own words in our own worlds. There is no justification to the means, there is no mean to the data. What is the half-singular of phenomenon? We are given a rhombus and the color purple and told to weave a portrait using asteroids and cat's sinew. We are given shards of clear glass and urged to gaze upon our full reflection mirrored back at us, somewhere in the light and glimmers. Think of the grids of latitude and longitude we cannot see that chart the migration course for birds, think of the sonar of the bat in the cave or the dolphin in the sea, think of the color ultraviolet invisible to humans but not to butterflies, think of the baby when the water breaks and it is time to come into the world and nobody knows why, why now, why did this happen, why did this break and come forth with a life, why is it sometimes a death that is born? Why must we be a tense and why be at all if we were never given the choice to become we just came being? What is random about my DNA about your DNA about point A and day B and the chances of the chances of chance rarity? Luck versus the unlucky. Is that truth? What is a mutation is a mistake is a regret is a correction a learned habit a false cognate an obsession a decision a random act?

How do we explain to ourselves what cannot be explained to us? When is it okay to accept defeat not by logic, but by the lack of empathetic sense in a random act? When do we excuse the betrayal of order as a camaraderie of entropy?