I’m a rather firm believer in free will and I also resonate strongly with the concept of destiny. I’m aware the two seem to contradict each other and as with many other grand questions regarding life, I tend to answer with both yes and no – because this is the only way language can attempt to express what inevitably and (often) painfully transcends it and the multifaceted complexity of life and all there is and isn’t (oh, what a clever phrase.)
Suffice to say, I see destiny as more than mere determinism. In this equation, destiny is dynamic and it represents a form of freedom – and free will, among other things, entails the freedom to realize one’s destiny.
For the past ten days I was accompanied by Ernesto Sabato’s “The Angel of Darkness” – a novel of blood, and intestines, and tenderness, and love. The warmth of blood, the warmth of intestines, the warmth of love – as long as one is alive, they go hand in hand. Within all this, the seed of death. And another thing, something else, which both transcends them and permeates them.
Days before reading the quoted passage from Sabato I was thinking about a similar thing: how many apparently minor details, meetings or situations in my life will at some point, later down the line, prove to be significant, potentially major events, turning points, symbols, beginnings, endings, and answers, the meaning of which will either strike me in a quite spectacular way, or come to me in a rather deep, subtle manner:
“𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺, 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧. […] 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘋𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘻 𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 […] 𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘰, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘐𝘧, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘵 (𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴), 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘴. 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘫𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.”
[Sure, let us not forget about interpretations and projections: things might only appear to be sinister or unsinister predictions and signs when it may only be a case of the mind selecting that which, for various reasons, wants to see. And then there’s an even more intricate issue, namely if existence has any meaning. Then again, what does one understand by meaning? Are we talking about meaning surrounded by an esoteric aura, or existential meaning? Regardless, I think it’s what one makes of one’s existence that ultimately matters and, whether or not existence or the universe have an meaning in themselves, the choice to give it meaning makes one’s experience all the more fulfilling. I’m not speaking of being delusional or seeing signs and synchronicities everywhere (as much as I believe in them.) I find that one of the most constructive ways to approach the concept of meaning and our relation to it was articulated by Viktor Frankl:
“𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘪𝘧 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥: 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦—𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘶𝘴—𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥! 𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳, 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 “𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.” 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥; 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰—𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥—𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘯𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘯𝘰 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘴 […] 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘶𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘶𝘢𝘭.”]
***
In another place, Sabato also says: “Life is so short and the job of living so difficult, that when one begins to learn it, one has to die.”
I experienced a somewhat similar state a couple months ago while heading to the subway: this simultaneously vague, subtle, and gripping feeling of my life as a mystery that I’m obsessed with comprehending and that I cannot comprehend, since I’m in the middle of it, living it, lived by it. I was thinking of the many things that are still not clear to me, that I cannot grasp, that I don’t know what to do with, where they come from, what they mean, where they’re going to lead me, and how they are interconnected – a suspension in motion, if I may put it like this. Things that directly pertain to my existence, in the most fundamental way, that are part of my most intimate core. Things that, in a sense, I know very well, but on another level of my being, because otherwise I don’t even know how to think them, let alone talk about them.
Understanding this mystery goes hand in hand with the passing of time: as more things become revealed and part of the pieces are put together, I will have covered more and more distance on my path, but this, in fact, means getting closer and closer to death. By the time I will have understood this mystery (if at all, if ever), I will be one second away from death. Total revelation equals death. That being said, there is no guarantee that I will ever understand this mystery that I’m speaking of, not even then, just like there’s no guarantee that this unfolding will ever stop: who is to say there is only one life? If what I experienced in my regressions is true (in what sense true?), one’s current incarnation is but a fragment in a continuum – this mystery is thus infinitely larger and more complex.