To Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos (first letter)

Dearest Ladies,
Some say you pull all the strings.  Do you know what they might add up to?  Will they be woven together eventually, and if so, for what purpose?  Do all living things pass through your calloused hands, from spindle to cut, rarely, if ever, sensing your touch?  Am I supposed to understand this somehow before dying?  I don’t think any of you will ever let me know for certain.
My adolescence inhabits multiple lifetimes, with a day taking up years in memory, but the entirety of my twenties is contained in what seems like a lost weekend.  I try to reconstruct compressed periods, but there are too many missing pieces.  My thirties remain a relentless sprint over many months, and now, during my early forties, I rest a lot and take long sips of herbal tea from a hand-me-down thermos.  It’s hard to accept that none of this has been of my own doing, that you’ve somehow decided the pace of my life, but I must admit to only considering my being-in-time with hindsight.  There’s been no plan on my part.
Each of you stays on task, from sister to sister, even here and now, across this terminal city I live in (a contested zone of relentless erasure and muzzled voice, stolen land, murdered and missing mothers, daughters, heartless poverty).  Some say you are The Fates, controlling all destinies, protecting whatever you’ve decided to be the case, but I suspect you’ve never decided anything for anybody.  Surely life needs to be constantly fabricated (by the three of you in tandem perhaps), spun as it were, without interruption, defying the most unbridled and selfish of wills, the most destructive of desires, by default.  Isn’t this the true thread of your existence?  You endure the absence of justice (the mocking silences and violent inertia, the accumulating depravity, the horror).  You’re constantly surviving.
I imagine your father calling this women’s work, in a misguidedly patriarchal attempt to constrict your righteousness, to diminish the power he knows you have over everything, including himself, in the end.
I hope to write again soon.