Destiny Is In The Details

“Destiny Is In The Details”

a narrative written in prose by Kenn Edward Tenorio


I always thought it was silly, almost preposterous,

how one soul can go on its course thinking, believing,

that somewhere out there lives a better half,

a perfectly carved out rock that flawlessly fits its cracks,

its holes;

that somewhere out there plays a song so harmonious

and intricate it almost defies your heart’s

undulating legatos and rugged staccatos.

I always thought it was impossible, of course,

for another set of eyes to meet mine and see

the calm sunset in them, let alone the storms of

love and passion that dwell in them.

Could it be, I always asked myself, that a person,

brave as he or she may seem, is destined for another, 

for a soul that was once unseen, but will 

eventually be eternally felt? A presence

like no other — like that of the wind that comes

at the perfect time to dance with the chimes 

just when you are about to sleep;

or that of the waves that crash into the shore

as we walk hand in hand along the horizon. 

They say destiny decides who touches your life,

but only your heart decides

who touches your soul.

Is my heart on gallons of coffee, then?

Because when it found you, when it finally found you,

it decided to do way more than simply touch my soul.

Your heart touches the core of my soul,

and then it tickles, it awakens it,

it uplifts it.

Your heart does to my soul what spring does

to the trees, what butterflies do to the flowers,

what flowers do to a garden.

So maybe I was silly, almost preposterous,

to think that a soul like yours was merely

a soul that was out there to be discovered;

Your soul deserves more than just discovery —

Your soul deserves nurturing,

it deserves gold, silver and platinum,

and a diamond full of joy, friendship and truth;

It deserves a home; that which not only complements it

but also encourages it; a home that provides,

that shelters, that caresses, that speaks the words

no poet can ever speak, and creates the movements

no dancer can ever perform.

Most importantly, your soul is a soul

that deserves to be chosen,

It is the soul I choose to laugh with 

on a sunny summer morning,

and the same soul that I choose to

lean on my shoulder, or cry on my chest,

on a snowy winter afternoon.

It is the soul whose whispers of affection

I choose to crescendo into unadulterated 

screams of love. 

It is the soul whose baby steps I choose

to cultivate and help turn into leaps of faith,

into grand gestures of passion.

You are my soulmate,

my destiny,

and today,

just like all the other days before and after this,

I choose you…

And there goes your golden heart, 

it’s beating,

I can hear it,

I can feel it;

It chooses me, too. 


Breaking The Ice

After almost seven months of feeling completely one-dimensional, I am back to writing again.

I guess that like with many writers, I sometimes find it difficult to get in touch with my deepest thoughts and my deepest emotions when I am not extremely miserable. I hear a lot of artists say that sadness and loneliness are their fuel to keep going with their art. But I wanna steer away from that direction. I do not want to be a sad artist. Yes, I have been happy. I have been mentally and emotionally stable. And it sucks that I have made that an excuse to not write for a fairly long time.

The truth is, I have grown.

I have grown in the sense that I no longer need chaos to make my heart feel like it can explode at any given moment. I am no longer that person who needs to hurt in order to write. Because right now, I am happy. And yet here I am.

… and I will always be here.

Beneath The Ceiling Fan

I was never good at staying in the same place for a long time. I always felt the need to go somewhere else, somewhere far from wherever I was. I always yearned for a kind of an escape. I don’t really know why or how, but this had always been me. It never meant I wasn’t happy, though. It’s just that, well, I guess like most people, I simply had a heart that needed a home. 

Aren’t we all lost in this world in some ways? I’d like to believe so.

What’s Left Of It


We recently moved to a different apartment. Moving is probably one of the most painful and brutal things in this world. This is what’s left in our apartment. The freaking packing tape used in boxing in all those stuff for the past week. This week has been such an exhausting week, and so I say to my family: If you guys ever decide to move again, I will MOVE OUT. Never again.