Damn You, Destiny, and Fuck You, Fate.
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Don’t miss your calling, kid, you whispered in my ear as you kissed me goodbye.
Calling? But you’re my calling, I said, perplexed.
It’s fate, I continued. Fuck fate.
Fail it, you said. Fail fate? I asked.
Yep. When fate fails, you’ll be free, you said. Free? I asked, confused. But you’re my calling, I said again.
You’re my mission, my act of contrition, my reason ‘to’, I said pleadingly.
I’m not, you replied, but don’t worry, darling, you’ll figure it out. That was the last thing you said to me before you left for the final time.
Wait, what? I stammered, but you were already gone. My heart broke like a stiletto heel stuck in cobblestone. I cried for us, and for what had become the familiar cycle of my life: deviant communication and creation of codependent chaos.
I mourned for what I thought was our completion of each other. I mourned for our moral poverty and our perversion. I lamented our symbiotic synchronicity and our delicious heartburn disguised as desire. A little piece of my heart and soul left me that day, like a little piece of stiletto heel stuck in cobblestone. Little did I know then that the lost piece would regenerate into something much more whole.
Condensed to hiraeth, it took quite a while, but my grief eventually turned to gratitude. I am grateful because this failure of fate taught me my most important life lesson thus far: I am my own calling.
It was a difficult realization, but once I listened to the little voice inside of me saying Fuck it, it became a lot easier. The voice said:
Fuck iambic pentameter and stranger danger.
Screw syntax and synthetic personas.
Give me plush prose and full-bodied fresh flesh, ripe and real (for which I’ll beg and steal).
Fuck lip service and bullshit.
Forget false prophets and talking heads.
Give me terrifying truth that stirs the soul and tears a hole.
Fuck how it should be, tell me how it is.
Banish fables and fairy tales.
Keep the prince away and give me freedom.
Fuck the fake, trust true colors.
Denounce deities, demons, the devil and the past.
Keep idolatry impoverished and embrace the here and now.
Decry despondency, hang the hierarchy, and suffocate sycophants.
Eat the forbidden fruit.
Sell your secret garden.
Transcend the terror of it all.
How do I do this? I asked the voice. Yearn for Yoga, zero in on Zen, and seek your own story… perhaps satori, the voice replied.
When I finally wrote my own story, and disallowed to make someone else my mission, I was free to set the bridges they told me not to burn ablaze. So, thank you, failure of fate, for allowing me to become my own calling with a fully regenerated heart and soul.
So, damn you, destiny, and fuck you, fate, I am my own calling.
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Amy Blanaru is a left-leaning Celtic Gypsy based in Boston. She works in addiction treatment and likes her pasta al dente. You can find her on Facebook.
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