One's lifetime could be viewed as a string, a stream or some other linear metaphor. Others might view destiny as a branching tree with fractal branches dividing into an infinity of choices. The point is, no one really knows much about anything regarding destiny, the future, infinity etc etc.
So why bother trying to explain it?
I was born into this world on a day of truly nondescript value. The sky was the sort of grey that builds up on the inside of your kettle, but darker, more violent. Raindrops attacked people erratically, prompting a fluttering storm of blooming and wilting umbrellas.
I was born in London; in a flat, a nondescript flat, of bewildering complexity. It was just like any other flat in London, with white walls and narrow halls, the kitchen approximately two arms wide and the floor masquerading as some hardwood but in reality is shamefaced lino.
Now when I was born I obviously didn't do much. I was blind, I think. I screamed a lot. Frankly I don't remember much. But that's not the important part. I was born to two people. Two very nice, truly non-nondescript people. In fact they were some of the most fascinating people my eleven minute old brain had met; then again, their competition was the drab physician with his offensive monochrome and the portly nurse with her slightly less offensive monochrome. (In hindsight, kids are apparently colourblind until a certain age).
Shortly after the fun waterslide of being delivered, I was swaddled in some white towels, and carried away to enjoy my new occupation of Newborn. The details of such a job are unimportant. After a while of staring at some hazy square tiles we went home, I enjoyed my carefree existence, screaming and then shitting and then screaming some more and ohboy I threw up in that ladies eye twice.
Life was mediocre. I couldn't complain. But then, one fateful, obscene morning, it happened. Unlike my birth day (or day of birth, for the confused and weary), this day was an incredibly vivid day. The sky was like a beaten child after they refused to empty their crying pockets to the obscenely large boy who for some reason is in the same year as them at school and who has a tattoo: a bubbling mauve glare. For the aspiring literati, bells might be pinging in their mind saying "oh! oh! pathetic fallacy! the weather! woo!". Well you'd be correct. The tragic theatre playing out in the heaven's mimicked what was afflicting me at that very moment. No, I was not being beaten by some bonehead in secondary school. I should have mentioned that I was only one - my birthday had flitted by with a rush of some splintered memories involving dentures, a tiny cake and some barking. However, on that day, roughly a week after my birthday, a tiny, rotten demon had crept into my room. It had perched itself on my lip, planting a tiny "Abandon hope all ye who enter here" picket sign upon the threshold and then did a backwards somersault into my tiny, defenseless gums.
My mother always said I had a leaning for the melodramatic. Should've been an actor, made millions, rubbed shoulders with Tom Cruise and taken heroin. In truth, my first tooth was pushing his way up through the lower left of my mouth, shoving the rude gums apart and begging for a drink of that pure sweet sunlight that I had been cherishing. And with him, he brought hell like none other experienced by my poor virgin soul.