Chapter Text
If someone were to describe Dan Howell's belief system in a word, they would probably chose 'non-believer'. That is to say, Dan Howell does not believe in things - superstitions, if you will. He does not believe soulmates exist, or fate, or the divine intervention of the Universe.
If someone were to describe Dan Howell's nature in a word, they would probably chose 'hypocrite'. Because in spite of his heritage (perhaps patronage will be more of the right word) he still preached all those things about Chance and Luck and Coincidences ("As if, Dan," his mother would say, "Those things are not divine too,")
But alas, Luck was not present during his tumultuous birth. Neither was Joy, it seemed.
He did not want to live till eternity. He did not want to pass through life in the blink of an eye - watching all the things that brought him joy slowly fade into obscurity. Libraries were born and burned, graves were planted and robbed, and humanity widened its circle only to spread its knowledge like a candle flame and hatred like a wildfire.
[In his multiple lives spent in prison chambers and hanging rooms, awaiting his fate, he often used to think of his long and utterly sad life. What made him so unbelievably sad that he had to die - what cataclysmic event changed his life in such a way that made him try to defy Fate and Luck (because as much as he wanted to cuss them out, he was forced with the knowledge that they did, in fact, exist). And why, if he was willing to 'donate' his powers, was he not being allowed to?]
He thinks maybe the mortals have a name for the emotions he's feeling. In a way, they are smarter than the Divinity. They held more power too - even if they were so ready to give it up. (Dan thinks maybe that's why he feels such a kinship towards them.)
But despite his best wishes to die, he never manages to succeed. Despite watching every single body get created and destroyed, birthed and decayed, he can't find a way to experience this himself, to finally remove himself from a world where he never should have been born into, and has no desire to participate in any longer.
And so every ten years or so, he ventures down to the middle ground. He roams amongst the mortals, feeding of every grain of passion they leave behind, desperate in his hope to feel something. He lingers in coffee-shops, passes through florists and nurseries. He looks into the windows of the hospitals, into coffins of the dead. He visits schools and old age homes, parks and libraries. He stares at the t.v shops displaying shows, rides every rollercoaster he can, all to feel just a small spark of what he has witnessed.
And when none of those work - because they never do - he goes to kill himself.