Hawa. Hawwa. Hawas.

Funny how words can mean such different things yet can be so close.

Breath of fresh air. Air that would slowly be turned into carbon dioxide over the next millennia. This place would exist, but turn into a shadow of itself. The green was lush, and so many different shades. It would also turn into a bad reflection of itself. Colors that had no name. That people would have no names for because they would soon not exist, as the pariahs of the earth would pollute and corrupt the world. Soft dewy grass that tickled the feet as you walked under it. The red of apples, the orange of citrus fruits, the yellow of bananas, the blue of blueberries, the purple of raspberries. All the colors. None of the poison. The sky was clear. See through. The stars would twinkle at night. All this was made for you. And what did you and yours do? Ruined it. I have no regrets though. The simulation will play again. You will fall. But this one, yours, special though it is not, has one very fascinating thing that I focus on right now.

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“Better to be shit than someone who blows himself and others up for a delusion”

DAA 2020

I shouldn’t have said it. I really should not have. But my level of comfort with him is so high that I could not help it. I literally blurt out any and everything when it comes to him. Also, he gets under my skin. Does he? No, that’s not it. He’s not the insidious grime under my nails. That’s not it. It’s my obsessive inclination to be an antagonist. We didn’t start the fire. Oh no. I don’t think you understand. I did start the fire. I wanted to. And therefore, I did. I really shouldn’t have said it. But it’s that drive, that persona i had carefully cultivated, that has now taken over me. I have become who I joked about being. I guess you could call me a chameleon. Or a circus mirror. Something in between.

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It’s not like it is in the westerns. No tumbleweed rolling around, lonesome. No saloon doors shuttering and creaking as they blow forwards and backwards in the wind. No eyes peeking out through old dusty windows. No sounds of spit coming in from bars, and rolling. It’s not like it is in the westerns. Not even the dramatic music.

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Splashes of orange and red, and a few hints of yellow painted the sky. Hubris. But the chaos of the universe, and therefore it was and looked natural. Like it was meant to be. Like it had always been. But there had been a time before. When there had been Nothing. Not the nothing we know today. What are you doing? Nothing. You aren’t doing nothing. You are a living, breathing creature, sitting or standing, as blood is pumped by your heart across your body, billions of cells doing their tasks to make you exist. You are a thinking creature. You exist. You may not be doing anything according to your definition but that’s the point, isn’t it? Your definition is flawed. Nothing is not a matter of perspective. Nothing is not what you are doing. There was a Nothing before, capital N. After, it ceased to be. Because there was such activity after, chaotic, of course. Such is the nature of the universe. You struggle to make sense of your lives. You fail to see that the only thing that makes sense is that it does not. Chaos reigns ever supreme. You are a mutation of nature, a series of endless mutations that led to you. And you are not the final product. There is no such thing. You will keep on mutating until your first ‘ancestors’ as you know them today will seem like aberrations, will seem like a different species to your descendants way down the line. The universe is a fickle and chaotic creature and you are just in the crossfire.

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One hand around her belly, as if it could ward away the bad luck she believed the crow would bring, and she swiped in the air again. Missed. So close this time too. For a third time, she did not see the droplets of blood, flowing eerily under the light of the sun, filtered in through the blinds of her window.

“Shoo” the crow cackled and perched atop a china jug. She wasn’t dumb enough to hit it with the broom on top of her china.

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It was a sunny day. The birds had been chirping rather cheerfully in the morning. It was unusually windy, but not too windy, not too chilly. Just the right mixture of wind and sun. The air tasted fresh, and smelled of roses and honeysuckle. The cottage stood tall and proud, it’s red brick walls gleaming happily under the glow of the sun. Inside, a kettle whistled. Steam made its way out the open windows. A woman sat on a chair in the kitchen, a smile on her weary face. In front of her was a letter. Inside her, her heart leapt with joy. Her husband was coming back soon. He had been gone for far too long. They let him visit occasionally but this time, it was done. He was coming back home for good. She placed a motherly hand on her stomach. She could not wait to tell him the good news. She imagined the joy on his face, how he would hug her, and lift her, and twirl her all around. The kettle whistles. She groaned as she got up. There were pains in her feet these days. She took the water out and poured herself a cup of tea.

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Shrill. Loud. Insistent. Eyes darting away, always to the same spot then back to him again. She yelped. Loud, insistent. Shrill. He winced. “What? What is it?” She wagged her tail and then brushed past him then ran back. Helping. Eyes darting to the exit. “No, I’m sorry, we can’t go there. She stopped looking at it, and looked up at him, her head tilted to one side, ears cocked. Then she ran in the opposite direction, her yelps asking him to follow. He sighed. “What’s wrong?”

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Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. The endless beating of time like a death knoll in his head. Ringing church bells in his heart. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. Eternity stretched out before him. The view was not pleasant. Living life eternal, why would anyone want that? Had they not experienced the moments when it is already far too long?

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It was neither a he nor a she. It was amorphous, asexual. So were the rest of the members of its species. That is not so strange, there are numerous examples in your natural world that are neither male nor female, are sometimes both, or sometimes neither. But it did not come from your natural world. Notice the words I use, words have power, words are deliberate, words should be precise. It was amorphous in sexuality. But that is not so strange. What is strange, what will seem strange to you is the rest of it.

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You’re always there. Like a rubber band. Sometimes intense, sometimes mellow. But you are always there. Always in my head, even when I’m alone in my bed. I miss you, obviously. God, it hurts. I know what the other must have felt like. But i also don't. It’s different… If I can drown myself in work, I can stay distracted. When I don't have enough, or when I’m free, which I will be for two days this weekend, oh, that’s not going to be fun. I need to pick up another habit, a project maybe. Something that consumes my time when I have any. Work is fun, thought I’d update you. It’s like the depression - not that I believe in it :P - like my depression, the tide of it ebbs and flows. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable, I know it’s always there, and at other times, oh wow, other times, it threatens to put me under. Starving me of oxygen, vision slowly dampening, darkness flowing in, the circle of visibility decreasing. A ball, a pin, nothing. A throbbing headache growing stronger, a feeling of dread in your heart. You know? I don't know if I can explain this properly. It doesn’t hurt as much as it is a pain that’s always there? It’s bittersweet. I love the memories I had with you, those were incredible

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Thunder cackled. Lightning rose. Winds howled. The air was burning. The ground was drowning. Water everywhere. Fire everywhere else. Smoke drifted through the air, lit up by the cracks of lightning, the whips of electricity sparkling through the air. It was black, enveloping, almost as if it would suck you in, would eat you. The ground felt muddy, and yet as if it was so dry that it would crack open. Heads felt heavy in this, as if in a daze, a fog from whence they would not return. The air tasted of burnt water. Droplets singeing your tongue soon as they dropped on it. Letting us steam, leaving a painful sore on your tongue. Yet, none cared anymore, those that were outside were dead, or uncaring. They walked around in a daze, uncertain, unknowing. They had blinded themselves, let their animal parts take over their minds, for the intelligence of humans could not survive, could not grasp this new world. They had allowed themselves to be dumbed down, had forced themselves, like they had once suppressed the intelligence of those they had been created to safeguard.

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Why had he ever agreed to this. Why had the other one agreed to this. Hur rubbed his hands together. The heat he could manage. He did work as a slave in Egypt. It was all manual labor under the hot sun. The heat was fine. But the cold, brr. He shivered. It was shocking how cold it was inside the actual thing. How well insulated. It didn’t seem to make sense. And yet, it somehow was. The magician had asked him if he wanted to see inside the pyramid. Why, he had thought. What is your agenda? The magician had smiled, as if still able to read his thoughts, but kept his lips closed. And waited. He had said yes, not seeming too eager, nor too indifferent, his heart had been beating really fast. The power had grabbed his insides, had grabbed his soul, and was pulling. The magician looked at his chest for a few seconds, cocked his head, as if he could hear the heart beat as it did, and smiled a wide smile. “Ok, go inside tonight. There will be no guards.”

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Standing on the soft sand, feeling the cool comfort of the salty sun kissed water as it swirls around you. The tide swells, and it rises up to your knees. It ebbs, and it falls down, fading into the sand, sinking like it were quicksand, slowly, the dark wet spots disappear, like it was never there. The smell is of ocean, slightly fishy, slightly salty, in any other place, it would be a terrible smell. But here, it mixes with everything else, and lifts up the heart.

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Flashy from outside. Somewhat tastefully decorated inside. He couldn’t make up his mind. “Go see if they have a table.” “Ugh, do we have to? It’s probably not good anyways.” Finding silence as a response he gave in, but made one last attempt to make it bearable. “Ok, but he has to come with me.” He didn’t feel bad about throwing his brother under the bus. He was selfish that way. They got out of the car, and walked the few yards to the restaurant. Guards everywhere. Drivers everywhere. Funny to think how things change. This place in front of the park had had a barbershop just a few years ago. Otherwise it was empty. Then some socialites bought one of the plots. Opened up a small cute cafe. The barbershop closed. Maybe he was messing up the order. He was probably messing up the order. They parked their big, fancy cars outside all the time. People were attracted. People came in. Then another shop opened. The ‘desert directory’.

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The man wore all black, even in this sweltering heat. He was pale, uncharacteristically so. Maybe he was a sage, or a mage. Maybe he was a wizard. Maybe he was a jinn. He had eyes that had dark black circles around them, on his left cheek was a birthmark. On his forehead, a dark grey circle, completely colored in. His hands were smooth and seemed brittle. His limbs long and his clothes loose and flowing. His cheekbones sunk in. Hur saw all this. So did the others. Some of them would talk about it later. Others were too jaded to care anymore. These latter just wanted to be worked to exhaustion, and then death. They did not care. Hur saw all this.

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The sun bore down fast and hard, the sands were shifting, like the ones in the hourglass of time. The laborers were dark skinned and groaning. Every now and then, there was a thump, and a whip cracking through the air. The smell of sweat and slavery hung heavy and damp in the air. Otherwise, the atmosphere was dry and arid. So dry, in fact, that it seemed the scratchiness of the air would cut through you like a steak knife through butter. If you opened your mouth, you could feel the sand hurtling in, as it tried to enter through every orifice. The pharaohs and their concubines, and their advisors wore clean white robes. The scribes following them, carrying reedy pens and parchy parchments. The laborers wore something that might once have been white, but was now dusty, and dirty, and muddy, and sweaty. They were building a pyramid today. As they did on most days, but this one seemed different,

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The wind whipped the plane as it raced down the strip like a train chortling through a tunnel. The engines howled with all their might. The plane gleamed white, flaps on the wings cutting against the sky as the mighty steel beast took a leap, stuttered and then fell down on the airstrip, still speeding. It tried again, and like a baby bird attempting to leap off, it was off. Soaring higher and higher and higher and higher. On a steep incline. People muttering their prayers to whatever they prayed in, or didn’t - in the interest of being inclusive. The phone was sparsely filled. The plane began to slowly lower itself to a horizontal plane and a small pattering of applause followed. It wasn’t audible, but there was the feeling that there was definitely a sigh of relief. Outside, the world was beautiful. Thirty thousand feet in the sky was definitely a peaceful place to be. And safe. Even, it seemed, when you were in the belly of a metal beast that weighed many tones and some of whose species crashed into Mother Earth below. Leaving pockmarks and craters that would soon be covered by growth. The people who were a little on edge on the ground, those people began to relax. Looking around every corner for signs of it, they now seemed like the constant being on alert had taken its toll, they were still too hyped up to sleep, but they were relaxed. Almost as if drugged by the overly sanitized cabin air. They were going home! They were lucky. Some of the others could not. The ban would soon be in effect and then none could travel. No exceptions. They were safe. Or it was there. Just they would be home. And that was different. To face it abroad or to face it home. Really made a difference. The clouds were like soft wisps of cotton candy, the plane hovering above them. Up here, everything was still. Didn’t feel like they were moving, but for the steady hum of the engine. A great throbbing heart of the big metal beast that carried them in its bosom. The meal service began, now that they were not stressed, some of the passengers began to turn into normal versions of themselves: some good, some not so good. The latter were peering at the air hostesses, in their skin tight clothes, as they sashayed from one seat to the other. They could feel the unwelcome gazes, but what could they do. This was their job, this was the culture they lived in.

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The fields were of wheat and soy, the sun was shining down hard. The wind was drowsy, soft and tender. His stomach growled as he pushed forward, sniffing at the ground. Something smelled really strong, he sniffed all around it, and then sniffed at it from a few inches away. No, it smelled bad. Like the kind that would make his stomach sick, and probably cause him to die. His stomach growled. He looked back, tail tucked between his legs. Cars rushed by on the road beside him. He was really hungry. His tongue was out, even though there was a stream of water right next to him, it smelled of the poison that the two leggeds usually put into the earth. He licked his paws, they hurt from all the hard and hot roads he had been walking on. He could put them in the stream, to cool them down, but then he wouldn’t be able to lick them. His stomach growled. His skin was taut and stretched tightly over his ribs, his fur was soft and thin, and scratchy too. He felt an itch in his ears, and could hear the insects teeming about. He scratched himself. The sun shone down hard. The cars were loud. The wind hissing as they barreled through it. He walked on.

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