Empty handed

I used to be a palmist, I guess I still am. I guess more than any book that defines me, that makes me, my daily palmistry has made me what I am. I look at my palms every day. Sometimes hopefully, as I see a new line emerge from the folds- from the patterns of the skin. Sometimes with fear. Yet I do this everyday. And as new theories about lines emerge from books or the subconscious, I try to change the lines, will them to change, will life to change.
But life resists, almost telling me to believe in other things. To not put so much stock by destiny. To embrace other arts. To think for myself, to live in the present.
And life likes teaching me lessons.
But like life, I too resist. There must be a plan there has to be a plan. Plans leave signs, and signs if you know how, are readable.
But why read the signs why be interested in the outcome why not fight the good fight?
Because because because. Because there is self interest and desire and the life one wants.
Then why not live it, why read the signs?
Life beats me in an argument every time. But life loses the sale.
I still read the signs, I still try and interpret, and still pit will against foreboding. It must be something wholly irrational. It may be paranoia, neuroses, a hollowness. But it's a stronger pull than an argument, stronger even than proof.
So I look at my hands every morning through bleary eyes and I think what can this mean. Have I made a step that has a possible outcome ten years hence or is this too temporary, fleeting, ultimately meaningless and empty?