Destiny. Supposedly we all have one. Somewhere far away, etched in stone, is the story of our lives. A man becomes a doctor not because he was born into a medical family, but because a script was written for him by some master playwrite, giving him some sort of glorius epilogue. You may nod your head in agreement, believing that you also have a fate of your very own. Do not be decieved by your own beliefs; destiny and fate are merely words put onto paper in the form of ink, or what have you. They have no meaning, and realistically the idea of such things is completely absurd.
The emotional turmoils in our eighty-or-so years of assumed "life" can sometimes be overbearing. We lose loves, we lose lives, and wander through a jungle of situations that tug on our minds (and our personalitys) uncessently. We travel along, trying to keep our sights
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