Is It Life Imitates Art?

Once, a long time ago, I wrote a short story. The story was based on an event that happened to a friend, very very loosely, and very much my imagination. About a year after I wrote that story, it pretty much happened to me.

I don't understand how this happens, but I read about another writer (I wish I could remember her name now) who wrote about a husband dying of a heart attack while playing tennis and then a year later her husband died in almost the same exact way.

I find it interesting that I posted those three poems yesterday, which really when you look at them, chart the course of a failed love affair. I had no idea what was coming this morning. None at all. In fact, I have been happier lately than in quite awhile.

Strange how we know some things without possibly being able to know them. Or is it that our art is so connected with our internal compass and intuition, that things appear there in our artistic expression, as a reflection of those deeper things we know, but cannot face?