There is the person you are meant to be. You are not meant to die yet, not before you are that person; it is not your part to be something else.
That fate of yours is to be a crocodile tamer in the Everglades.
Trust me; I am the person whose job it is to know what is meant to be.
In case you wonder: why of course there is an authority for these things. Do you suppose the whole “it was meant to be/not meant to be” thing was just a verbal tic, a belch of illogic for those too selfish to take the blame for their own failures, too timid to claim agency for their own victories, too terrified of the possibility that the universe is a big scary random place where things just happen?
Or a cosmological mistake, reflecting unexamined prejudices about the internal workings of the universe?
Do you really think it was just a glib assertion that either indicated faith in religious predestination and implicit surrender of free will, or then vague hopes that each and every life has a meaningful character arc and a happy ending, except for all the junkies and those that die young, who incidentally are not the special person You?
That is very silly.
Six millennia ago you, Dear Reader, were foreseen and then destined to crocodile-tamer-hood by the Enrobed Conclave of Midnight, and I am telling you so you can have a bit of time to prepare.
Get a leather hat and a machete, maybe.
Sooner or later people become who they are meant to be, and the Crocodile Dundee of the Sunshine State is you. All of you who read this. There’s space in Florida, and a meaning to each and every life.
(My hat in life, Dear Reader, is making Official Pronouncements To You and getting incensed over the little things people say. It is not quite the work of a Dundee, but there’s less chance of being eaten by a crocodile, so it kind of averages to the same.)