Dear Fate,

The match ignites between my fingers, sulfur-sharp and defiant. Soon these words will be ash, scattered to winds that answer to no master. How fitting – destruction as my final act of rebellion against your supposed supremacy.

My boots track mud across your clean floors of destiny. Each morning, I lace them with calloused hands, scarred from climbing fences marked "forbidden." These scars tell my story – not in the delicate embroidery of your design, but in jagged hieroglyphs of resistance. Yesterday's bruises bloom purple beneath my skin, badges of paths chosen against wisdom, against warning, against you.

In my garage sits a motorcycle, rebuilt from parts others discarded. The engine's growl drowns out your whispers of predetermined paths. Oil stains mark my clothes like war paint, each smear a battle won against mechanical destiny. I choose which roads to take, which lights to run, which storms to chase.

My kitchen table holds no prayers, only maps marked with routes you never planned. Coffee rings stain their corners – midnight decisions made by lamplight, each one a deliberate deviation from your cosmic script. The walls of my home display no religious icons, only mirrors reflecting a face weathered by choice and consequence.

Blood has dried under my fingernails from scaling your walls of fate. My shoulders ache from breaking down your doors of destiny. Let others read tea leaves and consult stars – I forge ahead blind, guided only by the compass of my own stubborn will. The taste of freedom is metallic, like splitting your lip in a fight you chose to start.

When rain falls, I don't see signs or portents. I see water, nothing more. Each droplet holds no message except the simple physics of gravity. Your elaborate tapestry of meaning unravels beneath my boots like cheap carpet, revealing the bare floorboards of reality beneath.

Tomorrow, I'll wake before dawn, not because it's written, but because I choose to. I'll drink bitter coffee, drive too fast, take the long way home – not as acts of destiny, but as expressions of will. Each heartbeat is a drumbeat of rebellion, each breath a declaration of independence from your cosmic choreography.

This letter burns now, orange flames consuming paper. Watch your grand design go up in smoke. I am my own author, my own god, my own fate. Come prove me wrong, if you can. Until then, I remain unconquered, unchained, and gloriously, defiantly free.

With resolute defiance,

The Author of My Own Story