I want fate to be real.
Hopefully, somewhere, there lies a tome with my life story written upon its pages. I want the comfort of knowing my life is meant for bigger things.
I like to believe that tiny coincidences are proof of my pre-determined path. The same day I finish a fable about hard-working gophers, I nearly hit a strolling land-beaver with my car. I watch a goose attack a fisherman as I wait to hear back from agents about my own Christmas Goose. I want to take these as signs.
But I hear about awful, awful things happening to innocent people. A woman is trapped in a man’s dungeon for decades, only to die alone after years of continuous rape. Reporters are slowly murdered by religious extremists, with their brutal deaths broadcast on the Internet. Why should it be the victim’s fate to be a victim at all? No good can come of a pedophile’s crimes, no matter the outcome of the butterfly effect. Why would some be spared and some witness to the terrors of existence?
I want to believe someone watches over the human race. I really do.
