Storms of Fate
The Years That Cannot Be Described Is A Meditation on When Fate, Force, and Fragility Collide
Some storms don’t announce themselves.
They arrive quietly. One gust at a time. A broken night here, a missed sign there. A forgotten prayer. A misplaced trust. A closed door.
And then, everything unravels.
It begins slowly, like dew dissolving from grass — unnoticed by most, but palpable to the one living it.
What happens when time turns into a sequence of curses that were never invited?
Not just one.
But the kind that come layered: planetary cycles misaligned, homes filled with silent energetic distortions, the invisible weight of curses and spells — not superstition, but phenomena too real for the rational eye. The betrayal. Then grief. Then the financial collapse. Then the kind of separation from loved ones that feels worse than death, because it breathes, while love lies still.
Years pass.
Not one or two, but five, then seven, then nine.
Each year, building a wall. Each wall is covered in moss. The kind that silence can’t clean.
There is no income.
There is no inflow of support.
Not from the family that once called themselves.
Not from friends who knew who it was.
When even the mind turns into an unkind witness, one begins to dissolve. And when even that is not enough, the body joins in. It collapses. Suddenly, without warning. A comatose silence follows, not just in the hospital bed, but in life itself. Days and nights pass. The world moves on. And you’re stuck in the in-between — a space that most never speak about, because it frightens them.
But if you’ve been there, you know.
No amount of logic explains it.
No self-help book touches that kind of darkness.
No motivational speech prepares you for when breath continues but life disappears.
And yet, somehow, a choice arises.
Inward or outward.
Outwardly anger, reaction, blame, denial, loudness, or collapse masked as ambition.
Inward feels impossible at first — because to look within means to walk back through each loss, each betrayal, each blind turn, and still choose to keep walking.
Some do.
Some don’t.
And there’s no moral judgment in either.
Because this path isn’t about right or wrong.
It’s about depth.
And the deeper it goes, the less the world recognizes it.
But to the one walking it, the silence becomes a teacher.
The darkness, a doorway.
The loss, an offering.
The trauma, a temple.
The spells, a sign.
The blockage, a message.
The coma, a conversation between the soul and the infinite.
After years of being stripped bare, there are no more layers to hide behind.
No more roles to perform.
Only essence remains.
And perhaps that is the most unimaginable space of all.
Not what happened.
But who one becomes when everything else is gone.
After such years, there is no return.
Not to how things were. Not to who one used to be.
There is only breath.
And the strange feeling of still being here.
Some days it feels like watching your own life from the outside.
Other days, like walking through smoke, not knowing if you’ve passed through the fire, or if it’s still ahead.
There is no clarity.
Only the ache of time… stretched too long.
And the question that comes — softly, then louder —
Will it ever change?
Or has it all led here for a reason still unknown?
Or…
Was this the ending?
And no one told you?
“There are lives that don’t fit into stories. Only into pauses, into aches, into pages like this one.”
Storms of fate don’t kill. They just leave you somewhere death forgot to finish.
Dr. Sowmya is a seeker of truths beneath the surface, guiding others through unseen storms with clarity and quiet strength.