The random swipe by the cosmic hand

 

So many destinies are poorly scrawled, almost illegibly, by adverse circumstances. Millions of meaningless destinies—except being meaningful in pain and suffering—shaped by wars, natural hazards, poverty, social strife. Destinies decided by the random casting of the cosmic dice—just being at the wrong place at the wrong time. And amid all the sad scrawling, a few nice lines, legible, the chosen few with an apparent meaning. A few people at the right place, at the right time as well. They serve as beacons of hope even though there are daggers of jealousy thrown at them by the poor and the destitute. They are the lighthouse in the dark, choppy sea, beckoning the struggling, gasping swimmers to join their league.