Suppose all life ran on the wheel of eternal recurrence – that is, we live the same lives over and over again, such that every thought, every action, every consequence that passes has passed before and already an infinite number of times. And our lives, as much as they may seem products of free will, are merely products of the preordained; determined by how we led it the previous life, and the previous one by the one preceding it, ad infinitum.
Now, supposing all that, could it be that when we feel something like a confidence in a certain foresight or a deep and inexplicable attraction towards someone we barely know, that it is the result of our memory not having been wiped completely clean. Thus there remains traces of our past life, which unconsciously we pick up and which lends us that chimerical confidence. In a sense, we have been made prophets of our own fates. We know exactly what is going to happen. But of course the rationale mind rebels against such inklings of the future. It assumes that the world is built upon the bricks of chance, and so nothing can be destined. If it happens according to one’s foresight, then it must only be coincidence. Thus is born that strange confidence which balances precariously between honesty and deception.
Were I to rest my faith in this proposition, in my mysterious and secret foresight, and be later proven wrong – oh, I can already imagine the venom that shall pierce my heart!