On Fate


On one of the nights when my father and I discuss life, we were talking about love and of course, that led to us talking of how Van Gogh decided to die and my father told me that he has a memory of a saint telling the masses that Gogh went to sea on a day he was already drowning in thoughts of a decided death, and returned with sundried tears, and the salt and oil they left behind the way the ocean will the day it completely dries.

In my father’s viewpoint, Gogh probably used the salt as inspiration, and the oil as paint or fuel, because he believes it was the sun that made the artist paint, but when I read up on Gogh, I found out such was not the case.

But I grew a deep-rooted affinity for a coincidence that I will now share –

I was only fifteen and when I decided to die, so I gave myself three more days of life for the sake of what the internet had been nagging me to do, and on the fourth day, when I had decided to visit the abandoned park nearby and drink myself insane until there is drain cleaner eating up every artery and vein that had my soul tied down, I woke up with sunshine covering every inch of my face except for my left ear, and I chose to kill myself on another day when the sun wasn’t so beautiful. Since then, I have never found the sun any less breath-taking, even on days preceding rain; maybe I’m only looking for a reason to live.

In my research, I looked up the saint’s work on Gogh and the second page I opened spoke of how an artist is to only create art for the sake of art, for the sake of creation and for the sake of paying the universe back for the life it has given to her, and not for the sake of appreciation, which was exactly the direction I had been lacking, and I was led to it on a Wednesday night because of my father, who doesn’t know what he thinks gave life to Van Gogh was actually what gave life to his daughter exactly two years ago.

So tell me there is no such thing as fate.



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