I’ve never been a big fan of fate.
It’s a lazy ideology and an easy way to make sense of the fortunes and misfortunes that steer the course of our lives.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a wistful dreamer with an overactive imagination; raised without a religion, save for the convictions I borrowed from a dog-eared copy of “The Little Prince.”
I’m not saying fate doesn’t exist. I’m just saying I’m better equipped at tempting it than I am at waiting for it to happen, because often it’s the choices we make (or don’t make) that decide our destiny.
I found proof of this a couple months ago buried under a stack of clothes in my bedroom closet.
A love letter in a Rubbermaid tote.
I came across it the way we often come across faded notes and old photographs: by accident, by chance, by fate or whatever you’d like to call it.