Some people believe that in this Universe, everyone has their own part to play. Some people believe that we travel on predetermined paths. They believe that we wind our way through life's labyrinth following not our own path but some string laid out to show us to the exit. There is a word for this belief, and that word is 'destiny'.

Destiny is a fickle thing. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy; by trying to escape it you are dooming yourself to its confines. It is what you make of it; at any moment you are liable to make a misstep and alter the course of your future. It is rigid, written in stone; every choice you make and will ever make is already known to the Universe. It is malleable, shifting, ever-changing; with each decision, the Universe revises its plan for you.

Destiny is like liquid stone; it is firm and unchanging until it is flowing and mutable. Destiny is like wood that melts when you set it aflame; it is not what you expect it to be. One moment you think you will be rich and famous and well-liked. The next, you have veered off course and everything comes crashing down around you and you know neither where you went wrong nor what the future holds. 

Destiny is a final thing, and it is death. Words carved blocky and bold in violet tombstones pulsing with red, a beating heart carved into stone. Destiny is a fleeting thing, and it is life. Moss creeping its way over old, yellowed skulls. Destiny is a dual thing, life and death together as one, bones buried deep in the earth beneath a weeping tree draped with vines, withered leaves strewn on the graveyard dirt below. Destiny is neither life nor death, a stack of cards that tell your future, tears of ink slipping over yellowed pages.

Destiny is cruelly kind, molten gold seeping through your fingers and taking your flesh with it. It is a hallowed Excalibur hanging above your head like a Sword of Damocles, promising greatness while hovering close by with the promise of something dire. It is an iron crown, beautiful and sharp and heavy. It is rusting. It is the end that comes for all, the storm itself and the calm before it, the silence after disaster, nought but sand left where once there was a beach of broken glass.

Destiny is nothing special. In the end, all it truly is, is the path you will walk through life's labyrinth of choices and moments. Whether it is set in stone or scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper, easily lost and forgotten, it is the winding route you take. It is each corner you turn and each turn you ignore, and it is above all else a blind and perfect storm, unhesitating and unavoidable.