The exegetes of our history and art have often mentioned this cycle of our civilisation, which differs from the ones who are separated from us by the sea. Several hundred years ago, the Xenites (our ancestors) witnessed a strange phenomenon; it was passed on after they inscribed it on caves and trees, so that the knowledge of the black winter would stand the test of time and make its way to the future children.

The Hayesi tree that holds the keys to the past has become a symbol that has witnessed all our cycles. It is said that when the first men stepped foot on Earth, it was desolate, and it was this tree that they planted. On every eve of spring, a ceremony is held where the collective recital of black winter is carried. But long has it been since we actually understood what was being said. Our only memory is that our fathers, who got it from their fathers, who got it from their fathers, mentioned that the black winter was terrible, but the nine springs before it knocks are the most peaceful. Nothing about the summer was mentioned. I am particularly interested in the inscriptions on the Hayesi tree, but that is for an academic discussion that I don’t want to delve in.

Her generals shot everyone who stood before the palace. It was a time to mourn, and they made sure that everyone knew it was that. After an hour, there was no one in front of the palace; everyone locked their homes shut and prayed to be spared. The Generals did not ravage the city; on the contrary, they turned rebel hunting into a game. They locked away all the escape ports — not even little burrows were spared.

The rebels were pit against themselves, and the generals held their women folk on the gunpoint. If they failed to hunt each other down, their women would be shot. The rebels, despite their bravado, couldn’t see through the antics of the Generals. For every rebel dead, their women were either shot or turned into a concubine who they’d have after they eliminated the rebels. General Britannio remarked how idiotic these people truly are. Did they actually think we would spare their kin? What would their women do without them? General Alphon replied, they’d breed more rebel rats. Better to kill them, General Britannio said.

It is done, your highness, Commander Bergson said in the dark. How many? The shadow looming over the throne asked. Around 50, give or take, Bergson said. Bergson, you have been a commander for 300 years, you know it better that I don’t do estimates. I’m sorry, your honor, the White commander said. 49, he corrected. Hmmm, the shadow was in deep thought. What were the ages? All of them were married, your highness, so I’d say around 14. Their ages are dropping — the previous rebels were 30. We shouldn’t look as child killers to the public: put up posters of them being traitors who took to the sea, and make sure that no one in Octavia takes to the sea; put up more forces. As you say, Great Matriarch, Bergson obliged. Oh, and erase their memories, kill the elders who are too old, we don’t need them, soon as the night falls, for it is the night of the blood moon. Bergson bowed in affirmation.

What about the rest? Lord commander Tarkin inquired — he has been the Lord commander ever since the queen gained the throne. You’ll take care of it, my dear, the queen replied. As you command, The Great Matriarch. Bergson and Tarkin don’t see each other in the eye despite their great respect for one another. Tarkin, being the elder, blinded Bergson to initiate him into the inner circle of the queen.

Dipshits, both of them, Bergson said in a whisper, murderers, plunderers. Dear God, give me enough strength to put this bullet — he tapped his gun — right into my skull, to end this eternal misery.

It was night; the sky was starless and crimson; the red moon hung high. Bergson knocked on the doors of the rebels’ family and friends one at a time. The women were nowhere to be seen, almost as if they had been alerted — there’s no threat that Bergson can’t eradicate — as he gunned down every man and child. Over the Hayesi mountain, several figures kept weeping. Let’s go, the voice commanded them, and off they went.

Tarkin, with his soft steps of an elf, sung songs that lulled everyone to sleep.

The night is young yet we aren’t so

The corpses may rot

Yet we aren’t so

Standing over the young sun

We might rejoice everything

Yet we aren’t so

And so everyone, including the generals, fell into a slumber, till the midwinter, when they woke up and the Queen’s death was announced.

In the past, Octavia was a land of fables and fantasy; anything one can imagine was here. The eternal Matriarch still persisted in her role, although very young; she was accompanied by the court of elves, known for their mystique, beauty, and warmth — or so they said. We do not have a way of knowing whether they were actually that, but from what has been passed down, the great Elves were slaughtered by the rebels who deemed the ruler unfit for this country. They wanted to build a bridge for the sea people so they could exchange cultures, while the Matriarch, in her abundant wisdom, saw through the treason: their plans were to enslave the Octavians and make them a colony of the Sea country, so the chroniclers documented. A chronicler documented pillaging the people from the Sea country did several centuries ago. Although much is still lost, the implication was that once they landed their ships, they started to slaughter every Octavian in the sight. Back then the country just had the queen and her two commanders; it was this incident that made the queen reconsider the use of manpower and technology — they could not be everywhere at once. But her children, or so she called the civilians of the country, always need her protection, so several branches were made: a new class of generals was created, trained by Bergson and Tarkin, although none of them had the sorcery of either two. When the sea people ravaged our country, the queen of the time fell down and weeped, so she came to be remembered as the wailing queen. Though it is implicated that it were the sea people who butchered the elves, who were the very first ones to greet them with respect and honor, the transmission chain of this specific reading is hard to find, although it does exist, in my library.

When I was a boy of fourteen, the Souq was a lively place; me and my friends used to rush to gather the new fruits the queen had harvested. Those were the sweetest plums I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. But year by year, their flavour thinned, and I forgot what sweet was supposed to taste like.

While they were all celebrating the coronation, I took to the Hayesi tree. I hope you tell the sparrows inscribe my love for plums on you, I whispered to the tree.

Do you wonder if it has time or a will to inscribe a suicide? Bergson, who stood a few feet away holding a gun to my head, asked me.

Humans have a weird obsession with depth. Everything must be deep. Almost like the flesh, the exterior is disconnected from the mind. Even though the body, the flesh, the outer appearance is pretty much the only thing we will ever see of each other. We cannot look at someones brain, unless you do an MRI or something.

If we look outside we see things as they are or rather how they appear and assume their composition lying underneath, we see the greens of the grass, the bark of the trees, what lies under all that isnt what we see.

The surface is just as complex as the layers underneath, the immensity of surface levels reveal a rather material level of reality, which is often discredited by people who want to investigate the layers underneath.

Depth is a creation of words. We ascribe depth to things that are fascinating, things that are beautiful, but rarely do we use it to describe things as they are. Description of a thing isnt as fascinating as investigating it to the oblivion. “scratching the surface”, as they say.

This outside world(our surroundings) is what we think of as beautiful, or ugly. Because our interaction with the outside isnt a two way interaction. We construct their descriptions through our use of language and hence, our interaction with our surroundings is heavily linked to us, rather than them.

When the same principle is applied to humans, the flesh is kind of discarded. We do not see how humans appear to us, we see metaphorically speaking their souls. Our ability to talk to each other, verbalise things establishes a two way road, and hence we appear to see how the person is rather than what the person is.

Establishing a two way interaction results in a reality that removes the cocoon of our physical bodies, and reveals to us the enormity of the human experience

Sometimes I wonder,

Where has all this lead me to

Deserts in all paths

Mirages instead of oasis

Will i walk all stranded

Heavens in my heart

Will i fly in horizons

The lord knows all that

Is hidden the songs

Of the hoopoe

Every traveller i leave

Sheds behind one amongst

The many me

Where is this road leading to

There are no maps to know

All profane becomes sacred

The nightingale weeps

For all her nests that we blew

Her tears flow

But they were generations late

As they bathe in its

Warm summer spring

If you were to replace a tyre of a parked car with a square one at rest, almost nothing would change. The value of a tyres design is always in reference to how it moves. If the car is at rest, the round tyre has no advantage over a square one.

The purpose is in how it interacts with the world.

As human beings we take pride in the innovations that seem to solve a problem, allowing us to advance.

In nature, a bee nests structure is segmented in layers with each layer complementing and serving a function. For the bee colony to survive, the nest must serve these functions. If one of the layer fails, the colony faces a threat.

For us humans, we often treat the past as simpler times and simpler lives. Was the life simple? We do not know, the only way to know is to live it, but we wont get to live it. This distance in knowledge makes us crave the beauty of simplicity. Even though our innovations now are at the peak, most of it is excess. So we look at the art of that age, and that art is sublime. The architecture is sublime precisely because it serves a purpose, a function. Modern and contemporary art is at a distance from both of these things, and then we are left with things without a soul.

But nature is never without soul,

thats perhaps why it feels home

Explaining a thing fails when what you experience goes beyond your vocabulary of thought. Even when an attempt is made you are horrified with how stupid it sounds when it is inked. The language limits it with a caricature of what seemed infinite. So what to do? We need more allegory!

Great mystics understood that their unbounded experiences cannot be chained to the structure and logic of language. So they used allegory, developed symbolism to represent the imaginal elements of that experience. Without having to bastardise the infinite

Mateo was but one of the many volunteers who took upon themselves the excruciating burden of painting the murder of Kalim.

Assembled in the Grand Hall of Commoners, a building created out of white marble with the sophistication of craft unrivalled by any wonder of the world. Quite a fitting place for artists to satiate the spectators with vivid strokes of their brushes. The nature of art is such that every hand translates tragedy into its own peculiar fever.

How peculiar the illuminations of wonder are.

To the majority of the painters present, the scene was a scathing moral blasphemy. The mutilated body of Kalim that lay cold in their vision, still twitching, was a declaration of war against the laws of natural order. A declaration of the sacred slipping into the profane and the fiendish desire of the killer who committed the horror of murdering his own brother.

To others, the execution was just another vanity project for the painters to make the world feed into their delusions of artistry and a way to make a fortune. Several remarked upon the scarcity of light around the subject and the difficulty of painting an object kept in such darkness. They suggested that the body be arranged in a place where it might be subjected to proper light and geometry so that a perfect painting might be composed and later pledged to renowned European collectors and patrons.

To a silent few, Kalim was just another of the many scapegoats of the king, intended to instil complete obedience in the people.

Mateo was a master of darkness. All his paintings were meticulous in craft. His assortment of muted colours in each painting reflected a deep knowledge of colour theory. Many tried emulating what Mateo did. Most failed; the few who succeeded could never overcome the inferiority they developed whenever Mateo exhibited a new painting.

Among his proclivities was an indifference to all things, regardless of their significance, even the king, upon whom he spat years prior to his coronation. The king remembered it well. He imprisoned Mateo for three years.

There is a famous quotation in the journals of Marge, who documented Mateo’s life in prison:

“Well, I guess I always wanted walls to create galleries.”

The remark was rather prophetic, as the prison is now considered an art gallery.

Mateo started his work, remaining insulated from the debates and the wailings of those present. Though his eyes were soulless, one could see stars inside them, beaming with all the ecstasy of creation.

The beams faded.

Mateo was met with a problem he was unable to solve: Kalim’s head. He laboured for months without a care for heat or cold. Yet nothing that he did satisfied him. Three hundred canvases were torn.

One day, in the cold of November, while Mateo was walking, still sick with thoughts of the unfinished work, he discovered a microscope in the breast pocket of his coat. He was surprised, for he had never possessed a scientific temperament to begin with. Musing upon the instrument, he returned to the hall. His heart was heavy with the shame of never being able to complete that great painting that he had envisioned in his mind.

He positioned the microscope so that he might see where the brushstrokes were failing.

Then it came to him.

The final act of ecstasy was to let go of all ideas of what the painting was supposed to represent and to plunge into that which was subconsciously latent.

The final act of disobedience was set in stone.

His mind began to unravel in every direction. All things were colliding: his blasphemies against the king, his mastery of colour, the prison, three hundred ruined canvases.

Mateo stood thoughtless as the supreme hand above him made one last stroke.

The marble hall, the spectators, the debates, and Kalim were deprived of all motion and identity.

The universe was closed.

Mateo was no longer a human, nor a rebel, nor a painter. He was stripped of every thought and form, remembered only as one of the subjects in the hung painting of a master.

All the facades of skepticism drowns in the ever flowing mercy of God. The heart so blackened with distance with quarrels of your interiority clings on to the hope of that very mercy. The mercy that encompasses every thing regardless of their disbelief. All that a heart desires is a moment of relief. The stronger shoulders develop from those moments of relief that God grants. Those moments of mercy. No tears suffice. No words can hint towards the strength that is required in the moments of absolute despair.

To replenish from the states of passivity then into a new formed sense of wondrous existence then starts with the dissolution of all the hardened questions that have deadened the heart that you do not see the reality of mercy. The despair that lowers one in the state of absolute confusion feeding over the void of confusion until it completely makes you unconscious of what your true state has always been. A state of submission.

To reconsider yourself, to reconsider what will get you out of this state of active grief, and look over the grand horizons of sublimity of the lord who does not burden the soul more than it can bear forever humbles you.

To hope, to have faith.

Moon you shine a coin dropped
From a peasants tattered pocket
Do you too want to run away
To the edges of the carpet
Of the night that stretches 
So wide that you cannot be
Contained in the two rain drops
Inside the rims of my eyes
Well veiled sage, let me know
What secrets do you hide
Do you yet remember us in exile
Do you remember what we were
Before the maps were redrawn
Do you remember the light 
Of my love who is beyond my sight
Peace be upon you, the lonely
Watcher of time 
Peace be upon our land
Peace be upon us 
Peace be upon the light
That was dimmed 
Peace be upon the love
That was stolen 
And paraded with lashes
Down our alleys
Peace be upon you and me
Do not wake up the guards
It is enough for the dawn 
To remember us

A visit from a fairy seems to be a recurring event in the ever so mundane life of Miller. Her visits are preceded by the warping of the room around Miller and his subsequent breakdown. To people around Miller, he seems to be paranoid. To Miller himself, he seems to be confused.
Quite a few weeks back, Miller had called me in the middle of a very cold night while I was in the most lucid of my dreams.
"Hey Anas, I need a favor."
I muffled a few responses that I can't seem to recall exactly.
"If anything happens, I've arranged the coffins and everything. Just pick the right ones," Miller continued.
"Alright," I said, as I couldn't really differentiate between my reality and the lucidity of my dream. If I were to bet, I'd have bet on it being a mere dream.
However, it wasn't so. As it so happens, I bumped into Miller at the cafe downtown. Miller is two or so inches taller than me. He seemed to be as happy as ever that he bumped into me.
"Thank you for picking up the call the other night."
Immediately, the event unfolded right in front of my eyes. It wasn't a dream. The night was real.
"I don't know if I could take it anymore," Miller said.
"What do you mean?"
"The delirium is becoming more real. I'm afraid it's just downhill from here."
I did not know what to say to any of that. To console a soul is to give it a part of yours. And Miller and I have had a lot of deal-breakers in our mutual acquaintanceship. To me, Miller is the same as the day we got fired from our job. We both didn't know each other. We lit a cigarette to celebrate our little rebellion.
How Miller got a hold of my number, I'm still uncertain. But I couldn't imagine it traversing into such an unfamiliar territory.
At the cafe, Miller greeted me with an austere sincerity. I always have a hard time understanding the austerity of people. I suppose we are all kind in our own ways. But our tone is what makes us wander into the spirals of our thought and question the other's sincerity. I always subvert any undertones that would cause me to doubt a person's sincerity—since, as it would seem, it bothers me a lot.
"About the fairy. Do they have wings? Like they mention in the books?" I was quite conscious so as not to offend and appropriate what others say about Miller.
He threw himself into a fit of laughter.
"I knew it! I knew it!" He slapped his thigh. "I'm glad out of everyone, you are the one I disturb the most."
"Yeah, well, I don't quite adore it," I remarked sarcastically. "The other day I was out dining with a real beauty—a really fine one—when you rang my phone."
"I hope I didn't ruin it," Miller said, still trying to catch his breath.
"You have a really original laugh," I pointed out to Miller.
The next event that followed was another hysterical fit as he crouched, holding his stomach. He'd have laid right there on the floor had it not been dirty. He took a glance at me and laughed again.
"Funny. Really, really funny," he muttered while I tried helping him stand on his feet again.
Miller was finally able to get a hold of himself and I found this to be the perfect opportunity to explore my innate fascination with fairies.
"So, uh, I don't really know how to say this. But could you describe her... or rather... it to me? The fairy, if you don't mind me prying," I told him.
"Do you want to see her?"
The question was as much of a puzzle as it was surprising. It was quite obvious from my reaction that I did indeed want to see what the fuss was all about.
"Doesn't a breakdown precede her visit?" I inquired.
"Stop being a cop, man! You'll know. You'll know," he dismissed the question.
"I hope you've not enslaved her." I couldn't help my sarcasm.
Miller giggled. "Well, I don't really know if it could be called an 'enslavement' if I don't have her do anything," he said.
"Yeah, you've made a slave of her," I said calmly.
Miller shrugged as his laughter took a hold of him again.
For the entirety of our walk, I was quiet. Miller said a thing or two that I cannot recall nor do I care. His home wasn't that far. After three minutes, we stood at the door of his house. He buzzed the bell.
"You got a wife or something?" I asked him.
"Oh, nah. Just my ma and pa."
The door was opened by an elderly man who was trying to find something. Miller helped him find the old man's glasses.
"Miller!" He let out an exclamation of relief. "You don't visit your home much. Busy! Busy lad!"
Miller glanced at me. "Pa's got amnesia," he whispered in my ear.
"Oh," I let out a sigh.
The old gentleman greeted me with a humility that is utterly rare to find in this wicked world. I was humbled.
I kept observing the movements of Miller's father that lacked any sort of rhythm and cadence. It was all out of place. Miller noticed my observatory lenses as I sipped the cola that was left on the table.
"He's got a neurological condition," Miller said.
"Ah!" I sighed. I did not know what else I could have said.
"Oh, honey, who do we have here?" a voice from the room adjacent to the one we were sitting in called.
"That's ma," Miller said with a genuine warmth.
I'd have mistaken her for his sister.
"She looks young," I blurted out.
Miller laughed yet again. "Yeah, takes a lot to maintain such youth while everything's crashing," he said.
"I suppose you're right," I said to Miller.
"He's an old friend, ma," Miller told his mother. "You remember the story I told you about the double firing that happened years ago?"
"Aha!" Miller's mom remarked. "I'm afraid I do not remember the details, honey."
Miller waved his hands. "I'll fill you in on them later again."
Out of everyone in the household, it seemed to me that Miller's mother was the most normal one out of the three.
"We better get going," Miller said to me. "I'll catch up with you folks later," he let his parents know.
We went up the stairs right into what seemed to be an endless hall. My temperament got the better of me.
"Where's the fairy?" I asked Miller.
"You were seeing the work downstairs," Miller replied.
I went into an inexplicable laughter.
I took another fine look at the surroundings where, at the left, stood a convex mirror. I plunged myself inside of the mirror as my memory of the hall started fading into a deep black circle.
As I rang the bell, the old gentleman was clumsily looking for his glasses again. I looked to my right where I, Anas, stood, helping the old man out with his glasses.

SCI, SKIMS, June, 3:25 pm. The hospital air was thick with white phenyl and ethanol as I was wandering. Almost gliding across the alleyway partitioned by wards of cancer patients. All this terror is too much for a heart to hold. Somewhere at the end of this stood my destination. 214—Room 214. The walk was tiring me out and as i kept walking the tiled floor kept on stretching. Oh it seemed so far. So so far. All I could do to stop my mind from turning insane was think about Camus, his dogshit politics, and his stupid philosophy. Wondering if intellectual consolation would delay the sheer terror of reality. Or better yet; turn this clock back to the time it never happened. Something—to make me deny the reality of my fathers cancer and stop this inevitable confrontation. Or so i went on. A verse from the Qur'an—Something— something— Anything! to make it just be a terrible terrible epilogue of a nightmare.
The journey is long and taxing and its holding my hand and taking me to an unknown world with all these patients engulfing my thoughts. A world where i was at a loss about my visit to the hospital, where my fathers cancer never existed.

And so i drifted through thoughts upon thoughts and there I stood, where a ma lay exhausted, lamenting over her kids life and the burden of a little coffin. And then
I was floating in between a family weeping and sobbing and the girls beating their chests as their old man is succumbing to the heavy suffocating grip of death
I could see them all. I am in them all. Yet I cannot hold them—I cannot— for the life of me console them and the hospital alley is stretching more and more and my walk is becoming harder and harder. I stopped, took out my phone—3:30pm—huh! it hadnt even been 5 minutes! But there i am overwhelmed by the cold indifference in between these hospital walls.
I keep on walking till i enter a claustrophobic waiting room. The trance of my walk was hypnotic and there was a girl talking frantic over the phone. Our grief was of the same place. So to say it was of a shared sense and only our eyes could verbalise it. Our mouths—never.
The hodgepoge of noise between the liminal indifferent walls kept me from losing my mind

none of this is real it cant be it wont be why why why why no its not bad its not no no no no no

214—i see it—the door now stood an arms length away and the weight of what was about to happen came crashing down. My chest could barely withstand it. Eyes twitching, feet were terrified to take another step. And i want to run away—run away and never come back
I looked to my Left. A beautiful group of people were praying and bowing towards The One. I realise that there is no such thing as disbelief inside a cancer ward. Its the only antidote. Only thing keeping it all together. Were it not that way. Cancer wouldve killed the onlookers before it even touched the sick.
I looked to my right. There were new white tiles on white tiles that kept forming more white tiles. In between all that a man threw his shoe at a beautiful orange cat. I mused about it with my mother on how messed up it was. She agreed.
My walk slowed. My body was in a state of automation, dragging my feet and i overhear these voices—very familiar voices— I kept on processing whose could it be. Then it clicked. It belonged to my uncles.
"Oh its bad but not as bad if you look at those other people in that ward over there."
Only the calamity of an unknown stranger soothes you and stops you from becoming an absolute wreck.

I went into the room.

There was my father who had wrapped himself in a thick woollen blanket.

"Last night was a weird one. I might have overstepped my boundaries."

He paused to catch his thoughts clicked his tongue, "We do not have anything to hide... The remembrance is for the people who we have long lost. And with that our pride. And it was on that god forsaken day that we lost our brethren.. our kin.. our children.."

Mushtaq buried his face in his hands. His eyes were filled with tears.

"Countless mothers butchered like it was nothing. My own wife—my own wife—sacrificed herself for the cause."

He couldnt continue anymore. He was sobbing like a child.

I am very bad at emotional confrontations. As a result I never had a partner or a friend. I cannot for the life of me console someone.
I put a hand on his shoulder as he kept weeping.
After a while he gathered himself again and glanced at the town.

He said, "If i were in her place Id have done that too. She was a brave one"

I couldnt stop myself from inquiring.

"What was she like?"

"Like all brave women."He said with a proud smile

"If you dont mind me asking, what exactly went down?"

Mushtaq was still hesitant. All I could understand was that whatever had happened was graver than his personal tragedy. What Louise said lingered in my head "dont pry in our matters." Yes. He was absolutely right. It wasnt my place. It was then that I decided that I will leave tomorrow morning. But my curiosity wouldnt let me be

I found myself debating myself.

-yeah youll leave then what?

-Document something else.. perhaps

-Youll be a laughing stock.

-yeah well what can I do about that

-all that unnecessary charade over truth. Just for you to leave this place? Dont make me laugh. Do your work and then you can leave

-but—

-No. If Mushtaq didnt want you to know. He wouldnt have let you know about his hardship.

-I guess so.

-Also you like it here more than your place. Stay around. Maybe talk to that kid.

-oh nah! Im not gonna talk to that brat.

-be honest. Hes like you in a way isnt he?

-yeah and thats why its hard to look him in the eye.

-its alright.

This brief discussion was interrupted with Louise who remarked how cartoonish I looked with all my expressions.

"Is that what you outsiders do often?"

"Outsiders! Ouch! You break my heart Louise!"

He chuckled,"Im sorry about the other day."

"Oh no no. If anyone should be sorry it ought be me. I disrespected your lot quite a bunch."

"Yeeeeeeaaaaa. You did. You did." He kept smiling.

"Heyy!!! I didnt mean it alright!"

"Yeah yeah! Sure sure!" He said as he pulled my beard

"Owww you brat!"

He chuckled and ran away.

"Meet me at the feast!" He shouted from a distance

I waved in affirmation.

-if you liked yourself growing up it means two things

-what are those?

-either that you are a retard.

-whats the other?

-i dunno. I dont like that car over there(pointing to what was in actuality—a jcb)

Life was just starting to begin after i was done with Highschool—or so i thought. Until the right moment when it launched a manhunt against me.

Now, I was trying to detect some patterns. Developing a protection of sorts. But what do you know? Life always comes at you without lube. And when that happens all you  really do is wonder—in awe and amazement that you could have never predicted this. Anyway. The issue I had wasnt with these barrages that were being thrown at me. The issue was that I couldnt scribble anymore.

Scribbling—to me atleast—was something that took me beyond the confines of a four walled classroom that did nothing but re amplify my urge to throw myself off a cliff. Also the pretentious smugness that came with it.

"Oh whats that youve made?" One of my classmates once asked

"Its a part of my subconscious" i replied with a holier than thou attitude

"That doesnt even look like something—"

God saved him that day.

About my scribbles(in bold to emphasise the seriousness):

I cant draw to save a life. I wish I could. I deeply adore humanity. But I cant draw for it. Anything I draw—really—just ends up looking concerned. Even something as basic as an apple. It looks devoid of any appleness. Only two people can claim that it is an apple. God and my mother. My mother has always been a true supporter.

Anyway

The scribbles—yes—they look devoid of any humanity. Or anything that would resemble a healthy mind. Instead they look sick, often pitiful and somehow...deformed.

I thought to myself: the human mind is limitless. The will to do anything encompasses us all.

Whoever put these ideas in my head. We are going band for band on the day of judgement.

My abominations repulsed me so much i decided that I will take the time out of my busy life and try learning this art form.

I watched tutorials. Learned perspective. Shading techniques. By the time i graduated from all that in the span of three weeks. I was a new man.

I brought the sheet of paper in front of my eyes—right on my glorious wooden desk.

I took up my pen. Stared at the paper again.

Worked. Worked for three straight hours. It was time to put my real learning to test.

This time. This time what I ended up making was even more of an abomination. A genuine feeling of repulsiveness inhabited my soul. My heart crushed. It was then I realised

I was meant for abstract art

I sped up my walk catching up to Louise. Ive always been intrigued by his eyes. He has got doe eyes that convey a form of sadness that i cant limit with language. Noticing me, it felt like Louise took up to his guard. "Its early" he remarked with a sense of detachment "you shouldnt be out yet"

That caught me with surprise

"Surely youre not hiding a murder.. are you, sweetheart? " I replied sarcastically.

"Not your concern"

"It is darling. I wouldnt let you off after murdering someone " I kept the bit going.
Thinking id catch him off guard.

"Dont pry into our matters. Capture the town and piss off to whatever hell you came from"

His contempt was another mark of intrigue. It wasnt outright disrespectful. But the condescending tone filled my eyes with ecstasy.

"Ah sure lovely. Tell me. Where are the others?"

"At the communal remembrance of the ones who have passed from this life."

"Ah you believe in God?"

"Not your concern but yes i do"

"Why arent you there?"

"Stop prying sheepface"

'Sheepface' — what a creative insult! I should write it down. Anyway. i teased him by saying id let everyone know that hes an atheist.

"Why dont you leave me alone?" He asked all flustered in the face.

"Oh i will. I dont like kids. Im just here for something"

"Yeah do it and move on"

"Not until you let me know why youre not there"

"Cus i cant cry infront of everyone"

I realised i shouldnt stress it with him anymore. So i patted his head and pulled his little beard down.

"Youll do alright kiddo. " i told him

"Just piss off i plead" Louise started crying.

I found myself again in a yet awkward situation. The only way out was to move in the direction of the communal remembrance that Louise was talking about. I tapped his head and walked along.

After walking for an hour. I noticed the gathering. Mushtaq was lighting a grand flame. I shouted. But he couldnt hear my voice. I went up cheerfully towards Mushtaq. Who looked at me with contempt. This was the first time I had seen such an expression from him. I knew I couldnt joke around

"What are you doing here?" He looked like he demanded an answer

"Just walking."

"Youre long way from my house, sir"

"Yeah you left me alone for days"

"I left you in your peace. You shouldve left me to mine"

"Comeon mushtaq! This is tedious"

"What is?"

The entire town was witnessing this discourse. I was annoyed by the entire spectacle. No one saying anything. Telling anything. Im a traveller here goddamnit. And yet none of them are being nice whereas im always trying to keep my dignity. Nor hurl contempt at people i do not know. I couldnt lose my cool. If i did id lose a home too. Which would hurt the expedition

"The entire thing. You dont tell me anything. You just let me be in that shithole of a crypt. Is this how you treat travellers?"

Mushtaq tried to say something. I cut him off abruptly

"No enough with this. If you were genuinely this opaque why didnt you let me know beforehand?—no—not even that. Why didnt you just tell me that theres nothing to look for here? What am I? One of your sheepcows?"

Mushtaq laughed

"Dont mind me sir. But you look miserable. I was gonna tell you about this day after all this was over. Im afraid you might have to wait till then"

"Oh—"

"Also another thing—good sir, do not disrespect the customs of an unfamiliar land"

I had indeed overstepped my boundaries. Getting conscious of my act. I felt utterly disgusted with my behaviour. I tried to mend it by bowing to them and apologising.

"Save it for your part of the world" Mushtaq said, still not done with the laughter.
"We dont need it"

I felt utterly ashamed of my existence. If there was a gun. Id have shot the bullet right through my brains

Ive been having very weird dreams lately. Its been weird. I dont know if its the place or just my homesickness. I travel often—been doing it ever since i was a small boy— so homesickness isnt a new thing to me. I do not dream much. Its just like a black carpet over my eyes and thats all. But ever since ive been sleeping in the crypt, my dreams have been very lucid. So much so, that when i open my eyes I find myself confused with the reality of the dark crypt I am in.

I havent been writing as much as I should for the past week or so. And the reason for that is my refusal to leave this crypt. I do not know whats gotten in me. But i feel terrified at the thought of seeing the sun or the moon. This feels home.

Mushtaq has been treating me with the same dignity as before. I feel immense hatred towards myself. All my life i had this one dream. To explore liosia. And now that im close to it—now that i am here—i just do not want to do it anymore. Maybe I'm too tired with everything here. Or maybe its just the air thats been different. Mushtaq let me know that ive been sleeping continuously for two or more days. Id have lost count of my days here. Had i not have my journal with me. So far i can count—assuming Mushtaq is right about the deep sleep—it has been 10 days since i have been here.

Mirrors are really hard to find in Liosia. I can feel my stubble when i rub my face with my hands. The only way i can see the changes are via the streams and lakes. But i havent been outside for over a week now. I must pull through. Ive been on a diet of mostly charred meat and berries. Thats the diet of everyone here. During the evening everyone gets together and contributes to the fire that is lit in the middle of the ground. And everyone chants hymns, dances and be very lively.

I have busied myself with way too much "science" in my previous entries that i forgot to truly document Liosia. I saw this on the very first day. But being do preoccupied with myself with other formalities of journalistic inquiries. I think it would be better for me to immerse myself. To give myself away to this place inorder to write the truth.

Mushtaq hasnt been home tonight.

The night is so long

There is neither

Warmth

Nor coldness in

The domain

Of my being

The crypt feels like I am protected by my mother again.
In her womb i stay—

i stay—

Its warm—

Lovely—

Comfort me—

Dear mother—

Mushtaq, a coppersmith whose hands have withstood the harsh winters of history invited me to his shop while i was capturing the town. Working for over 40 years without breaks—save for the two eids. Mushtaq works devotedly. To him, his work holds a deep religious significance. What fascinated me about Mushtaq was his reluctance to talk about the tabooed plague that overtook the town of Liosia 30 years ago. 

Mushtaq isnt new to this refusal. In fact many journalists before me have asked him and other people about the plague. But all of them have refused. Not even a word of the plague is uttered. 

The younger generation have been kept protected. When asked, they smile and run away. 

The beauty could heal hearts. It feels like I am home again. Liosia is protected by mountains. Any entry without a proper permit is met with aggression by the locals.

My fascination with Liosia grew the more i discovered how little we know about it. The journalists who documented it in their logbooks before me refused to let it be accessed by the public. Even now if you ever pick up anything about Liosia. They just treat it like some discarded primitive civilisation that they failed to dilute into our world

Although I am in Liosia I am deeply pessimistic about us as a whole venturing into the place. I deeply believe that we must let them be as they are. My moral compass keeps clashing with my curiosity. However, curiosity prevails, every time. And every time  I feel more or less guilty. But that isn't the point of this journal. The point is to explore, while I'll be giving my personal insights about things here. Although, I do not know whether you believe me or not. I'd advise you—my dear reader— to adopt a rather skeptical attitude towards my insights, since I—myself—am a byproduct of the very same outside world. Focus more so on the town itself. We outsiders have a problem of making everything about us. 

Anyway—

I did not have a lodging place. There are no air bnbs and neither hotels. So now I am in a crisis. I do have the money but im afraid it would be of no use here. 

I asked Mushtaq whether there are any— where i could lodge in for a month. His humility struck a chord of my heart. "Sir, you are our guest—thanks to the Lord almighty—please stay at my home for as long as you please. I insist sir"

I couldnt say no to his offer. I surrendered myself and went to his home.

I forgot to mention the part about the houses here. Unlike concrete or wooden architecture, here they create crypts inside the mountains. This allows them to "better connect with the nature around them"

I told Mushtaq about my place and where i came from. There are times when you can look at a mans face and see the disinterest in their eyes even if theyre making it seem like theyre interested. I realised that. And shifted the topic to the town again. I asked him some questions that i will be mentioning below:

• Do you know anything about my part of the world?
  -He smiled and turned away watching the sunset

• How long have you been into the craft?
  -50 years he said, ever since he was a kid

• Do you have any heirs?
  -Smiled again

Knowing the polite reluctance of Mushtaq, i realised i shouldnt overstep my boundaries. I didnt want to hurt my stay. So I told him that I'm really feeling it today and that it was a harsh day and that I should sleep. He showed me the guest room. It wasnt very spacious. Just enough for a person to sleep.
I thanked him, stretched, slept.

2

The night went by and it was as if I was miles down—deep into my grave. I'm not very claustrophobic but i did wake up quite a few times to pee. However i didnt bother waking Mushtaq up. "Hes got work tomorrow" I thought. So I decided that id test my bladders strength tonight. I decided to relieve myself tomorrow.

By the time the sun rose I was already cross legged in the living room. Its really important that i detail out the interiors of the crypt. It consisted of two laterally connected rooms. One living room. The other Mushtaqs own. The living room is relatively simple. With very basic rags. Half of it is just grass. They do worship nature here. Turning towards the right in the living room. Some stairs take you down. And that is the spare room—the room that I was allotted. The washroom is relatively simple. Made up of mud and sticks. I didnt even think that it was a washroom. I honestly thought it was some kind of pottery. I got to know about it when Mushtaq laughed hearing about the nightmare that I had to fight last night. Apologised and then showed me the way. Im taking a real liking to this guy.

I asked him about the kitchen—turns out—Liosians dont have one. Infact he sounded very surprised when I told him that we have this cute thing called a "kitchen" as part of our houses. I made sure to gesture very appropriately to let him know the gravity of my seriousness. Finally— I saw a bit of hope. This weird look on his face made me deduce the possibility of us developing a true friendship.
Mushtaq as usual, had to go for work. I decided to stay for a while, gather my notes, and then discover the place for myself. Immersing myself in the local atmosphere. I really like how slow everything is here. Almost like it takes an eternity for a second to pass. If you are reading this. There is a high chance that you most definitely do not know how exactly can "a second pass as if an eternity went by." Thats the point. You are reliant on me here. Youd have to take my word for it—im afraid.

I went around the town. There arent any markets here. Which was weird. After asking a local. I got to know that people here have a lifestyle that could be best described as a living monastery. They dont have any use of the concepts such as "buying" or "selling". The more I walk around the more I feel like I have connections to this very place. Engaging in conversations here is so entirely different. The people barely speak. When they do. Its precise and very articulate. They know english but when I inquired about how they got to know about it. None of them knew anything.

I would like to think that they were once part of our civilisation who—as time would have it— scattered to this part of the world. And then eventually formed a civilisation completely isolated from the rest. I should also note the flora and fauna that I have noticed here. They are entirely different. Animals could be best described like fusion of two animals from our part. There was a sheep sized cow that i saw from a distance. And an elephant sized rodent. I dont think it would be far from the line to assume that evolution here has been completely different. I would like the term "parallel evolution" as it avoids the thought that ours was stagnant. The people have strikingly similar physiognomy. I havent seen any variety. The only difference here is that kids seem to have beards. It is highly likely that they shed it off when they turn adolescent.

While driving to the place, i wished for him to never come there. “What if i get into an accident right now?” I thought. “Then he would have to cancel it without blaming it on me.” That never happened—as annoying as it was.

I prayed to God to just kill me and get this over with. “But thats not how it works,” i thought, “it only happens on the appointed day.” God, how i wished for that day to be today. If an apocalypse were to rot everything and negate all human beings—I’d have gladly hugged it and been the first one.

I reach the destination, waiting for my friend to come. He wasn’t there, which was quite a relief. I was about to phone him, but then wondered, “what if he is actually arriving and then it would be such a disappointment.” My solitude for those thirty or so minutes couldve been written off as a spiritual experience in the olden times. Everything was beautiful. I was sublime. I could see the world in its entirety. There were no people. It was just me under the light of that dazzling sun. I am the squirrel there. I am the leaves of the tree. I am everything i need to be.

Unfortunately, this ecstasy was interrupted by my friend, who tapped me on my shoulder just as i was about to become the new age sage. “Where you lost at?” he inquired.

“Nothing man. This place is so beautiful.”

He nodded. “Do you wanna do it today?”

I took a deep breath. “Here?” I asked with the utmost humility.

“Nah, we gotta look for a place,” he replied frantically. “Whatsup with you though? Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” i blurted out. “True solitude makes one undergo spiritual progress.”

It was then i realised i messed up. I was about to get clowned on for such a pretentious statement.

He laughed. “Goddamn man. We havent even smoked yet.” He laughed so hard that he almost got run over by a truck.

At the place, there were cigarette butts everywhere. There were broken liquor bottles, rolling papers, and of course needles. A lot of needles. It wasnt long before i realised that I’m actually screwed. Its all happening. The catastrophe is happening. Oh my dear lord! How would i escape!? There is no escape. I cant just let him be and chicken out. No—No—that cannot happen. I will not. I am a man. I’ll deal with it… somehow.

He took out the rolling paper. “Oh well,” he said. “Can you help me out?” No, i will not be helping you out in this endeavour, I thought. “Oh for sure,” my mouth calmly replied.

He had the elixir in a little can. He opened the can, laid it out on his hands, while he gave me the rolling paper. “This is the hardest part,” he said. My eyes kept observing his movement. He got the elixir down on a blank sheet of paper. Then, with the help of a plastic straw, got it in a single line. I can still reenact all over again, if asked. But I’d deny any affiliations.

The elixir was rolled. It was right there in front of me. My friend gestured it towards me as he held it in between his thumb and the index finger. For a moment, i forgot everything. It looked beautiful. So beautiful that i asked my friend, “do we have to ruin it by lighting it?”

“Man shut up man! The hell is wrong with you?” He took out his lighter. I wished for the lighter to never light up. It would’ve ruined the beauty of the object. I suppose I dont like my objects ruined.

He lit the thing. I still remember what it sounded like. It sounded like an old paper getting burned. As he took a puff, coughed a bit, “fucking hell,” he said as he passed it to me. I dont like cursing unless its a necessity. Given the situation i was in, it was a necessity. I took the thing and kept glancing at it. I eyed my friend as if to ask whether i should do it or not. He shrugged in affirmation. I took a deep puff. “Oh wow,” i thought to myself. “This is splendid. I like the taste,” i let my friend know.

“I know,” he replied. “Its foreign.”

“Aha,” i smiled. “Fucking hell.”

As it kicked in, i forgot that i was with my friend.

The world around me started to warp. The colors were as vivid as they were when i was a kid. I started to talk to everything. Even the little rocks. The entire thing was like walking into a blissful garden with gentle sun rays caressing your face.

All of a sudden, i felt so pure. I felt like i was levitating. My body had no weight. I was thoughtless. Formless. And whatever there is in between. Everything there slowed down. I noticed peoples conversations. And everyone who was eyeing me—or so i thought. There was a man who had undergone vasectomy and was crying about it all alone. It mightve been an urgency. As i was levitating, i felt one with the world. I was the world, yet i remained as i was. In my mind, i was like a thousand suns. Glowing eternally. Rays that wouldnt ever dim.

I levitated to a place beyond earth and beyond this world. It was cold. As cold as November. And i was there, naked, shivering from the cold. There were some guards there who had big heads. Their heads were bigger than their bodies. They were holding me in a medico-sanctuary.

A monitor displayed who i was to them. It read as the following:

-Blood: hard to say, the color doesn’t exist here
-existence: human
-skin turns red when hit. Turns pale when blood drained

As i saw myself, being a mere spectacle for a thousand or more eyes, i started to cry. My shame is my honour. Without it, i am nothing. I shrivelled up into a fetal position so as to protect this disgrace. As my tears were then taken as a sample by the facility with the help of some technology I couldnt understand.

I tried looking up to see if theyre still watching me. They were. The monitor added another information:

-Rolls up and expels fluid via the oculus.
-Oculus displays luminal activity.”

I prayed to god. To get me out. So desperate i was in my pleas that i started attacking the sanctuary. I tried to punch through it to get away. When that didnt work, i sprinted to maul the thick glass that was keeping me inside. My hands bled and my feet hurt. And just then, the sanctuary healed me again.

I kept repeating the same tasks. The spectators kept getting amused. The monitor kept displaying new information. I had lost my sense of language. The entire thing reduced me to my most primal state.

Inside the sanctuary, I was nothing more than a pig at a farm. Doing things to amuse its owners.

I prayed to God to get me out of here. And that i would never sin again. But the hell wasnt ending.

Every day kept being the same. The spectators grew. The glass thinned. And gradually I kept getting a joy in amusing my captors.

The monitor stopped displaying information. I forgot who i was. I forgot everything about me. I remained just another animal who was displayed for pure amusement.

The joy was then a nightmare. The robotic tasks i had to carry out everyday became my hell. I wanted to get out. But i knew no one. I had no one. I didnt even know where I was. The planet was all yellow. It wasnt even Earth.

Among those big heads, someone threw a very sharp pointy blade towards me.

It was then i decided. For the last spectacle, i will murder myself. I will commit seppuku to stop myself from getting disgraced any further.

The crowd gathered. I sat there, kneeling on my heels. This was the largest crowd i had ever seen. Never had i ever seen so many heads and so many eyes. The blade lay right beside me. I raised one of my hands up.

And screamed on top of my lungs. I was at my most primitive and most primal. I grabbed the blade, screamed once more, and put it right through my body. With a smile on my face and my guts on my floor.

I woke up then at the very same place where i got high. My friend stood right near me, trying to check up on me.

God had saved me. He had saved my life.

My friend kept asking me if i was fine. I was anything but fine. I was a thoughtless madman. I let out a shriek, “facility—”

“what?” Asked my friend with a sense of urgency.

“God saved me.. he saved me.. he saves all”

I kept chanting senselessly as my mouth foamed and my lips went dry.

“I’ll be right back” i told my friend , “be right back” i raved with myself.

I ran away.

The dagger gets softer for sure.

Would i ever want it to leave? No—

Its the only thing keeping my sister alive with each breath i take

Now, docs from here who graduate from bangladesh are a real pain in the ass. There was this one time where this one doc who graduated from bangladesh took out a pancreas of a guy from my street.

Now i know nothing about biology. But you do not mess with a folks pancreas. That dont sound very nice. Anyhoo, i get to this doc i tell him. I have these feels. He says its some bi stuff that i gotta take meds for. Its really messed up. I tell him "your honor i have my rights"

Stare at me

Drowning—

Those big

round eyes

I am falling

Into a deep sleep

Angels eye her

Inside those

Cascade dreams

And all that is revealed

Shall be revealed to us

In my fish eyed fields

And keep smiling

With those torn down,

Broken, paralysed teeth

“Why have you forsaken me?”

A widow or i hear

A mother weep

I am locked inside

My abandonment chains

A fulfilment i seek

Is another curated

Digital misery

All that i am

I am all that

In my chains

This place is way too quiet

Tell me, dear lord

Would it be a sin

To defile these fields

With the tears of my heresy?

Hello? H-e-L-L-O ?

Big round eyes

Smirk at me

Terrified—

Drenched in sweat

In awe—

I utter those words

That she whispered to me

This is freedom

This is freedom

This is freedom

The enchantress shall

Free me

She shall free me

Oh! But i wonder

How would i gaze

At her in our

Fish eyed dreams

If i ever were to be free?

No

Shows me afterthoughts

Of all those things

i left unsaid

The starless moon

And the dark sky circles

All around you

And all that is mercy

Leads me to you

Oh ive sinned—yes

So very much

I sit by the windowsill

Painting a portrait

My hands tremble

And the picture

Will never be known

To you

Take my hand and

Dance without a rhythm

To the ends of

Our half lived lives

Branch out

Like falling fig trees

I stand witness

To the defilement

of rites

To the nuclear end

Of civilisations

You whirl threads

On my hair

And you kiss my forehead

Bizarre as it may be

There is life

In every fabric here

For a few secs