It’s strange really how destiny feels tangible at times and absent at other moments. It feels like destiny lately how my life unfolds but I remember it clearly how I got here how my choices shaped my world in a  way that now seems inevitable.

That feeling of destined paths in our life is just a way we tell stories. Because everything looks clear in the aftermath. In hindsight of a finished stage of our lives everything looks set, predestined, it just makes sense (if we’re lucky enough), like we could do no wrong. And that is a comforting thought that allows us to feel like we deserve our place in the universe like it was given to us. That way we don’t have to think too much of those less fortunate. That was just their destiny you might say.

Can you see the trap? The one we place before ourselves to fall into. The one that allows the universe to change in the slower rate we can understand.

It was like that for me walking through my life, writing my stories. It seemed like destiny. I’ll surely succeed soon. My fame and fortune are just around the corner. But that corner never seems to appear.

I think at this point that it was luck (or certain kind of stubbornness that creates ripples which might seem like destiny) that I got to go a long way around. Because I got a chance to see first hand how the story of my life changes as my not-yet-success lingers on. How I would explain events to myself in a way that kept me going, kept me writing on.

In the latest installment of those explanations, I say that all needed to happen like that to force me to expand, to know myself and to dare to write in English. But I can also see the level of success I would have if my station came in sooner. I can see how I would follow different stories thinking those are the only ones I could ever write.

Now (with my success station still to come) I can see how stubborn I was, how I invested in this reality where I write stories. Even if everything happens as I foretold it (or how I fiercely tried to make it happen) I can never think of it as destiny because I know how much time and effort I put into writing and imaging new words. If I didn’t, no destiny could make me a writer that could last writing on in years to come.

And that was my goal. Not to write and succeed beyond my wildest dreams, and retire to a castle of my own, or an island surrounded by sea, but to have the privilege to write and then to write some more.

But life has ideas of its own and it took me so long to come here, near and again far, that I think my stubbornness is failing me. Maybe now I’m ready to see what else I can do besides to sit in my chair and write on.