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Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the sandstorm adjusts. Over and Over you play this out, like some omnious dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm
( my suggestion: opening your eyes, and stretching your hands so big they feel like exploiting. Sand pours in through your eyes, through your ears, through your mouth. But it does not hurt, for you are sand, for you have always been. And right when you stop fighting and battleing the storm, fighting and resisting yourself and your inner force, you suddenly feel lighter. Something has changed, for now you have given into yourself, you have given in to your will, and in to your destiny. No more fighting, no more pain. Light starts glowing from within, flowing through your arms to your fingertips, through your back to your legs and your toes. Light shines from all your extremities, it escapes through your eyes, through your mouth, for you are light, for the fighting is over, and you are you. The quest ends, and existence, in the most profound of senses, just begins.)

(the author's: closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.)

Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the shore