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Don’t miss your calling, kid, you whispered in my ear as you kissed me goodbye.

Calling? But you’re my calling, I said, perplexed.

It’s fate, I continued. Fuck fate.

Fail it, you said. Fail fate? I asked.

Yep. When fate fails, you’ll be free, you said. Free? I asked, confused. But you’re my calling, I said again.

You’re my mission, my act of contrition, my reason ‘to’, I said pleadingly.

I’m not, you replied, but don’t worry, darling, you’ll figure it out. That was the last thing you said to me before you left for the final time.

Wait, what? I stammered, but you were already gone. My heart broke like a stiletto heel stuck in cobblestone. I cried for us, and for what had become the familiar cycle of my life: deviant communication and creation of codependent chaos.

I mourned for what I thought was our completion of each other. I mourned for our moral poverty and our perversion. I lamented our symbiotic synchronicity and our delicious heartburn disguised as desire. A little piece of my heart and soul left me that day, like a little piece of stiletto heel stuck in cobblestone. Little did I know then that the lost piece would regenerate into something much more whole.

Condensed to hiraeth, it took quite a while, but my grief eventually turned to gratitude. I am grateful because this failure of fate taught me my most important life lesson thus far: I am my own calling.

It was a difficult realization, but once I listened to the little voice inside of me saying Fuck it, it became a lot easier. The voice said:

Fuck iambic pentameter and stranger danger.

Screw syntax and synthetic personas.

Give me plush prose and full-bodied fresh flesh, ripe and real (for which I’ll beg and steal).

Fuck lip service and bullshit.

Forget false prophets and talking heads.