It comes from somewhere, the certainty that our existence has a purpose and is being directed in particular ways, towards particular goals.
Like religion, our certainty may be nothing more than a delusion based on flimsy premises, or no premises as all - but it is there.
It comes from somewhere: the aggregation of my personal biases, piled on top of one another for years; sedimentary rocks, layer on layer. Certainty is strengthened by co-incidence, and by the accumulation of events which accord with my particular world-view, even as I ignore those which run counter to it.
I'm in love with you because you were wearing red on the first night we met; because you had a bag with a picture of a cat on it; because when I caught your eye it co-incided with the playing of 'The Planets' inside a pretentious bar. You're in love with me because I remind you of the dead brother you never knew; because I was reading a copy of The Guardian when you bundled into me; because I smell of Joop!
From this moment on, then, my raison d'etre is to love, for example, the woman with the cat-themed bag. The delusion turns on convincing oneself that our love would have ever taken alight if I'd met her in other circumstances - if she'd been buying tinned ravioli; if she'd wanted a Spaniard instead of an Englishman; if the boat hadn't capsized and I'd not had to be rescued.
The inviolability of the co-incidence strengthens the inevitability of the love that follows. The woman with the cat-bag (a black-and-white cat with yellow eyes) understands this on the day she meets the black-and-white cat with yellow eyes. If the real-life cat had grey fur, I'd have never acknowledged you.
It is luck. In luck, we assign purpose and meaning.
