Perception is an ugly thing. We take in and believe in only what we can see. Whatever that is absent, is automatically non-existent.
Quranic text tells us Man were made out of various forms of clay, with a soul subsequently breathed in by the will of God.
The very nature of our being thence, has become entirely geological if they were to be put in a form of analogy.
For instance, we always crave for beauty in others. The perfect partner would have both external and internal aspects of themselves completely aligned and balanced.
Yet that isn't always the case.
Due to our limited senses, we get enticed and allured by the beauty of forests or green fields, when in truth, the earth they have hugged their roots around contain nothing but dirt.
And as we cut down all the trees, used up all of the wood, and foraged all of the fruits, we abandon the land, leaving it barren and desolate.
Beauty based on whatever is on the outside is ever so temporary.
It is however, a rarity for us to ever be attracted to the jagged rocks, or wide, endless oceans of sand deemed the desert. People often avoid these places, to find fertile grounds, or at least a safer path to travel.
Little do people know, that most of these layers of seemingly barren rock hoards a tremendous amount of precious gold, whether black or displaying metallic lustre.
After thousands of years of mining, notwithstanding the progress of extraction technology, Man has still failed to learn to not judge a book based on its cover.
But it is true, that these precious stones, be them diamond or coal, will eventually run out too.
And when it does, it signifies senility or even death.
I am on nobody's side. People in truth, are short-lived. Whether ugly or not.
We try so hard to conserve finite minerals and endangered trees, just so they could last a little longer.
Makes you wonder that maybe perception is pointless. And that when you love someone, you just...do.
“Haha, Damon get out of that tree”, said Malika. She was trying to climb up branches, but slipped on one of them. A boy with brown eyes glinted in the dusk light laughed at her. “It’s been 10 years Malika, and you still can’t catch up with me?”. Damon was the boy, and he was sitting on his haunches on a tree house he once built when he was 6. His friendship with Malika was as old as the tree house, and she finally got up to sit at the same level as he was.
“Aren’t you afraid this thing’s gonna fall?”, said Malika , nervously adjusting herself on the tree’s platform. “No, I think my dad has got that covered. Look, carbon reinforced wood”, Damon grinned whilst bouncing up and down. “You know how he’s like with me”.
“So..”, Malika interrupted the silence, as theywere previously observing the sun taking refuge behind the dark evening clouds”…you said you wanted to tell me something?”. Damon sighed. This was the original reason why Malika came. It was one of the reasons they bonded so well. Damon had a scientist-cum-inventor for a dad, whilst Malika had an ear for stories. It has been going on since he was 7.
“I can’t believe we’re leaving for high school already”, said Malika under her breath, as Damon gathered himself to talk about his father. It was never easy, as his father’s inventions were most of the time, beyond what common sense can absorb. Even with Malika, whom Damon has had the pleasure of divulging craziness for the past 10 years, he still felt like he needed time to compose himself. He welcomed the distraction ‘though, thinking he wasn’t ready. “You know Malika, the only friend I have is you. And that fact, doesn’t really make me look forward to high school anymore than you do”, said Damon. “But we don’t have to go”.
Malika felt like she was caught off guard. “What? C’mon, Damon. You’re not still afraid of girls or what you call the ‘female species’ are you? You’re almost 16!” “I’m not afraid, you dimwit. Don’t make me sound like I’m biologically inept at handling myself in adolescence”, snapped Damon. “My father used to tell me stories you know..”.”About girls?”, giggled Malika, but was immediately cut short. “..about my mother.”
Everything went quiet. Damon’s mother was a taboo topic. She was a schizophrenic, and has many times attempted to murder her own husband. Even worse, she once tried to abort her baby with a butter knife. Damon never knew his mother personally, seeing as to how she was detained to an asylum immediately after giving birth to him. “..it’s a pleasant story I guess. The truth is, my dad loves her. I was on the way to our basement once, and I saw him bythe gramophone, singing to her picture on his desk”.
Malika looked disconcerted, but placed a hand on Damon’s back to comfort him anyways. “…so my father hasn’t told me what it is. But I snuck into his basement, and I discovered that he’s invented some sort of portal”. When the sky turned red, Damon finally told the story.
She turns and toss beneath the blanket moss, staying close to the bus, hoping to get some of the heat emitted from its engines.
"Ares, God of War" she whispers under her breath, tracing the constellations with her fingers.
"Hey, Tina?"
With every effort left in the cartilage of her bones, she got up on her haunches. There was a Man In Denim Jackets.
"You're not asleep yet, are you?" "I'm trying to"
Slowly, the Man in Denim Jackets glanced at her drawstring pouch near her jeans, as to not attract her attention. But quietly enough, he nodded before she could form words of accusations.
"You're not still keeping them are you?" "Why not?" "They're magic" "So?" "Magic sends people to hell"
Constantina Roger smirked and continued her attempts at slumber.
Man In Denim Jackets joined her, differing due to the presence of a pillow under his head. "Take off your shoes, Tina. You'll get nightmares from all of those dirt on your feet."
Shoe gazing, Tina laughed abruptly, "How long have I been on this hill?"
---
"She's in a coma"
Terence furrowed, twiddled his thumb, looking for forms of expression that would not make anyone write him off as worried.
"Oh", came out from his lips.
"How long 'til this junkie goes to hell?", said Terence's Girlfriend, under her breath. "She's on...indefinite suspension, if you would like" "No I DO and WILL not like" "What?", remarked Terence at the lack of arrangement in terms of syntaxes.
Terence's Girlfriend blabbered on under the flickering lightbulb, whilst Terence tried his best to listen.
The truth is, Terence Roger, never loved his sister. Abandoned her after the death of Mr and Mrs Roger, until he received news that his only living relative was stuck in the grey area of this world and the next.
Terence Roger was also an atheist. "Come, let's go home. The hospital would inform us of any de...velopments"
"Just say death, Newton". Terence's Girlfriend rolled her eyes at the demeanour of her lover, fixing up her cocktail dress.
"I was just wondering, honey, does talking to Constantina render so many illogical consequences it automatically invalidates my stand towards empiricism?" "...my God, Terence. I thought you hated her. Sigh, you know what I'm going to the car first. Will wait for you at home. Keys, please"
Terence inadvertently threw the keys at his girlfriend's face, and halfheartedly apologising thereafter.
He stared through the pane of the intensive ward unit, his sister almost lifeless. Not that she ever had much to live for.
--
"You just entered the hospital, Tina", said the Man In Denim Jackets
Apparently deaf to whatever was said, she went back to her attempts at reaching sleep.
Dear Diary,
This is weird. I was alone in my apartment as far as I remembered and now there's suddenly this man in denim jackets.
" I can read what you're writing by the way " Annoyed, Constantina Rogers uttered, "Yeah, way to have a go at my penmanship. Who are you again?"
"I told you, I'm technically your Angel of Death. You see, you just had a seizure due to overdosing of methamphetamine", said Man In Denim Jackets with a nonplussed look on his face.
"On Christmas? Really?" Suddenly, Constantina remembered Sunday school, and let out a cry of disagreement with the way her Angel of Death looked.
"You're not Death" "No. I'm your ANGEL of Death. You see, because you entered purgatory from drug abuse, you're actually high and metaphysically torn apart at the same time" "...woah"
She pulled out her drawstring pouch, and started ingesting barbiturates. "So..name?"
"Pilgrim. Call me, Pilgrim", as he was lying down on the grass, he took out a list. "I don't wanna be blasphemous, but after all I'm only a psychedelic souvenir, and not actually a creation made of light"
"It's okay, as you can see, I'm intoxicated". Finally giving up on pretentiously dozing off, Constantina Roger stood up on her numb legs (accidentally hitting them against the exhaust pipes of the bus). "Can you be my lover, before I go to hell I mean?"
A long sigh came out of Pilgrim's mouth. He took off his denim jacket, revealing a T-shirt that was torn, shabby, and covered with what looked like vomit.
"Your brother's here, and he wants to pull the plug" "No he's not here" "I meant outside, in the conscious world. You can't see him"
There was an empty look in Tina's eyes, "No...he's not here"
---
Terence sneaked into the dark room, whose only lights came from the digital display that showed how his sister was doing through numbers and pictures that resonated a sort of morbid video game.
"..hello, sister."
---
The bus started its own engine. For the first time that night, Constantina Roger felt scared.
"I'm sorry", she said, dawdling and trying to find composure, as she tried to figure out who she should say sorry to.
"Merry Christmas, pagan", waved Pilgrim without looking away from his list.
