planned obsolescence
Let's suppose I believe in fate.
God has a plan for me! There is a timer on my forehead counting down (and oh, I never look in the mirror). Temporary. Living til I die. Temporary. It won't be long now. If I drove a knife into my heart would I fulfill that prophecy? If I drove off a bridge would the bell toll just after I was too far to hear it? You'll know. Write me a letter when you do. We are born to die. Maybe God didn't want me for longer than 182 months. Not forever young; dead. Don't cry love. I'm ready to go. Don't cry, love. All is the way of the universe.
Let's suppose I believe in reincarnation.
I – God’s own crafted precursor for a newer version, a 2.0 – I was built to break, to be replaced by another sorry excuse for a living being. I don't know him but if I did I would say I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have to go. Don't waste anything on me; I'll be gone soon. I am not worth what you offer. God planned my obsolescence. You'll have to find the next edition of me. Darling, I've been doomed since my first steps.