Destiny

1. Pilgrimage
I once clasped my hands together for the devil. Unlike the usual paper-bleached prayers I
chucked towards Jesus every night, I decided to ask why Satan was the root of all our
concerns. I was always the inquisitive child. From existential remarks to scribbling squiggly
lines over the meticulously scripted house rules. Like any other little devil out there, I was
uncaged from the world. My wings would bring me to all corners of the playground. Alas,
my wings have long since been torn.

Born a Christian I was. I skipped to church every Sunday. Well, that was before I stopped
going. To be frank, I never really paid much attention.

I’ll never understand why Christians sing songs. Doesn’t God get bored of us singing the
same songs for him? I remember the haven of harpies I flocked with during church many
years ago. Every one of them twitched their facial muscles, chirping and screeching and
shoving air out of our diaphragms. Like a cacophony they were, screeching and clawing for
God’s expiation. I’ll never understand them. How does one receive benediction by wailing?

Upon the cessation of the holy hymns, I would flock and flutter along with the other little
devils dressed as angels to a Bible study group. I was the small thorny tree who sat alone in
a pit of tree stumps, staring off into the void. Never did I talk and never did they talk to me.
Every week, I always sat through the entire two thousand and seven hundred seconds every
single Sunday morning, listening to the teachings of the bible and how God forgives every
single one of us thorny harpies. I really hope my cold hands and little devil wings will ignite
with warmth one day.

Every few weeks, the church would bring around some bread and wine. The harpies – being
the voracious beings they were, would all chow down on the bread bestowed upon them.
As for the wine, not a single drop of the vulgar viscous liquid was left in the goblets. Being
the little devil I was, I never tore at the stale bread that stunk of death, nor did I let a single
drop slither down my throat. I always wore a rictus when the bread and wine was passed to
me, which I then passed on of cause.

It’s ironic how people consider church to be a consecrated place of unification. They say
church is a place where one can feel the holy spirit stirring within of them. I could only feel
the pyre smouldering inside of me as I trudge through the masses alone every Sunday. I
wonder if God has forgotten about me yet. I wonder if any angels will embrace me tonight.
Perhaps they’ll wipe my decades-long waterfall of tears…

2. Desire
They say wetting your bed as a child is normal. I really wonder if this applies to tears.

As a child, I would huddle my ten soft stuffed toys until I withered into dreamy wisps. I never
named each of them, for I knew their names would soon fade into nonexistence like mine. I
would whisper words of hope and affection to each and every one of them – words I so
dearly desired to hear from someone other than myself.

A black-branded bellflower brandishing in the brittle wind. Alone. It always flourished in my

dreams, frolicking in the sepia-toned sea of bellflowers. The bellflowers always danced in
unison, whilst the black solitary bellflower always frolicked within. It never choked and
always stayed afloat, drifting hazily through the crimson sea of bellflowers that never split.

Once – only once, did the black-branded bellflower whisper my name to my blundering
bosom. The soothing yet luscious voice wisped along the sweeping zephyrs, its slick strands
licking and lapping onto the slippery curves of my ears. Teasing slowly and lasciviously, it
slowly slipped in once, then slipped out in a trice, and slipped in thrice again. Eons of stars
soon passed too soon in time as I drifted into a serene trance. Somewhere in time, it slipped
its unsealed envelope into my ear and into my still-so-stumbling bosom, which continued to
stagger yet even more so strongly.

I wonder what my name was. I’ve long since forgotten it. Perhaps one day…

I still reminisce about the sweet melody that danced into me once. It stirred my bosom,
heart and soul once. Only once. Swirling and twirling, whirling and hurling. I wonder if it’ll
stir again.

I still hope.

3.
Like any other harpy, I walk upon this earth. Hoping, lusting and staring into the void.
Wondering around, I watched the saplings emerge. Once bathed in darkness – entombed in
their hollow seed, they erupted from the void beneath, beaming. For every insignificant, yet
significant tick of the second hand, the saplings transcended higher and higher, not towards
the stars, but beyond the stars.

I, who watched the trees grow, decided to clamber upon one. Watching them wither once,
twice, and thrice again, I also saw their resurrection from the catacombs of the earth.

Until the winds gently blew again, and a mellow whisper tickled his ear again.