Portended

Was I wrought as I am by the circumstantial and character influences of my earliest years, or were those experiences imparted to me to prove myself worthy of a calling towards which my early trials were but gauntlets I had been foreordained to run? Clearly, childhood in all but youthfulness was denied. Bestowed as animals not given suckle with the natural instincts and capacities for survival distant from the breast, I flourished as if by will, yet then refused, and so by necessity, the requirement of fate that I prevail. Many would have perished, perhaps, deprived of both courage and liberty by parents who thought better of themselves for having instilled in their children the seeds of the fear that had blossomed and throrned in themselves. I was not among them. It is the seeming near impossibility of it all, the collision and the coalescence of so many contradictory forces, defying all likelihood, that raises these questions, that urges this enquiry. In nothing being as it should have been, it was precisely as it had to be. In nothing seeming as it was, everything appeared just as portended; exactly as was written, etched, indelibly, on the windowpanes of eternity.