Really? Life is like a river in what way?
As you stand on the riverbank, you dip your hand in the flowing water, watching it pass through your fingers and realizing that all of your life’s experiences are as ephemeral as the flowing water.
As you sit at the riverbank, you dip in your cup, to hold part of the life of the river for your own, realizing that for all that you hold, you can never hold as much as the river has to offer.
Or maybe, your are in a boat. The boat follows the path that the river has carved, taking you through smooth deep places, shallow rushing stretches and waterfalls, and you reach the epiphany that you are at the mercy of the river, but that you can ride it out and accept all that the river has to offer.
You are a leaf, or other light piece of detritus, forever floating on the surface of the river, at the mercy of the currents, never understanding the forces that affect your traverse.
The river is continuously moving, flowing in one direction. You are stuck at one point on the bank, watching as the river brings its bounty, its detritus. Forever renewed and yet unchanging.
I don’t think that life is at all like a river. A river is far to singular to ever encompass a metaphor for the complexity of life. Life is chaos, and we tell ourselves stories to force the incidents of our lives to make some sort of sense. The metaphors for the river are just tiny pieces of driftglass that we wonder at, feeling the rough/smooth/scratched contours and seeing if the texture fits.
Strive against the current, go with the flow, try to stem the tide.
Experience life, or not.