Before we begin, a quick lil' authors note: first of all, thankies to nomi
who helped me out with this chappie!! I wrote it, but he gave me the words
for counting in urdu. Love ya babe!!! ^_~ urdu is the native
language of Pakistan, where the main character was ORIGINALLY supposed to
come from...but Pakistan is NOT in the middle east, and I said he was from
the middle east, so I used Saudi Arabia....i could've used virtually and
middle eastern country, but I chose Saudi b/c..well, I chose Saudi.
That's why. I'm still keeping him speaking urdu, though, b/c I don't know
Arabic or urdu, and nomi knows urdu.so.well, it's inconsistent, I know, and
maybe one day I'll go back and fix it up, but until then...oh well, deal
with it! It's only a ficcie!!! So I don't want any flames for that!
Oh, and some things ya need to know; (thankies to nomi!) this is nomi here:
1= one= aik = two= do = three= teen = four= chaar = five= paanch = six= chaih = seven= saath 8= eight= aath 9= nine= no 0= ten= das
ok, now to the ficcie!!!
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6, 7, 8, 9, 10...
I am not crazy.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15....
I am not crazy.
16, 17, 18, 19, 20....
I am not crazy.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25....
I am not crazy.
26, 27, 28, 29, 30....
I can not sleep. My body is aching with exhaustion, my soul with weariness, but I can not sleep. Thoughts and memories are bouncing around in my head in a jumbled cacophony, mixing the past and present. Who am I, really? Am I the orphan boy from Saudi Arabia, or am I my uncle's American nephew? Where do I fit in? Do I want to fit in? Why doesn't my mother cook breakfast anymore? She's dead; that's right. How could I have forgotten? Is my uncle sleeping? I think he is. I think I should be, too. But I am not; I'm thinking instead. Does thinking mean analyzing what's inside your head, sorting out your thoughts from your emotions? If it is, then I don't really want to think anymore. Funny, I was always thought of as a bright child. Maybe the light bulb is burning out. Oh well; does it really matter? I think I need to stop thinking.
My head is hurting, and I truly do not think I make sense, even to myself. I really must stop thinking, and feeling. There is only one thing I know of, other than prayer, which runs on pure instinct, and that's martial arts. There are many different forms and styles, and subdivisions amongst those. My chosen style is Taekwondo. Well, my yami's, actually. I would really like to practice Tai Chi, but, when I had first moved in with my uncle, and we had a discussion stemming from the need he felt for me to become 'involved' in an activity to 'help me cope with these new adjustments', I had chosen martial arts. When picking my style, right before I said Tai Chi, my yami decided to take control of my mouth. Taekwondo came out instead. There are many aggressive forms of martial arts, but my yami currently seems engrossed with Taekwondo. It is widely known for its aggressive nature, relying purely on physical strength and endurance. At least, according to her. Who am I to argue? At this point, I really don't care; as long as I get the release my entire being craves. As long as I can escape my inner turmoil, I do not care.
I would kneel on my mat and pray, but I am in no fit state to present myself before Allah and petition his help. I am a mess right now. So, I will do the only other thing that grants me release from my hell. I get out of bed and pad my way silently throughout the house, still in my pjs. I exit onto the roof of our apartment building and go, barefoot, across the cold cement to a thick, wide blue mat, where I usually practice when the weather is nice, as it is tonight.
Standing in the center of the mat, I close my eyes, breathing deeply and summoning all my tension and frustrations into one big ball that gets caught in my chest, near my heart, and chokes off my breath. Bowing and straightening, I exhale and loose myself into the rhythm of my art. On the short trip up here, I had barely held back my thoughts, but now my active mind was quiet, focusing on the movements and rhythm of my form. My body moves of its own accord, my eyes closed and my soul concentrating on my coordination, timing, and posture. Everything ebbs and flows together, and I forget that the world and myself exists. There is only pure movement and energy. There is only this moment, this strike, this stance, this kick.
//Hell's bloody bells! What the fuck are you doing, you stupid little twit? You're fucking the whole form up!//
My body jerks then stands completely still, air tensely trapped in my lungs. I can feel the ancient silver against my chest, under my shirt, as my yami stirs.
//What the fuck is this?// She is angry; I have used 'our' body to make a 'mockery' of our art. She takes partial control of my body. I can still fill its movement, but I no longer have any say in its actions. I am merely a passenger along for the ride.
//What the fuck is this?// She mentally snarls, and I wince, my soul shrinking away from hers. She moves my limbs in a smooth, flowing, gentle motion. The movements flow together like a gentle stream of water, instead of a raging, rapidly moving river, which is what they should resemble.
//Here's what they should be, you son of a flea bitten whore.// Yes, the words hurt, but I am numb to the pain. I have long since been used to it. They do not bother me anymore. At least, that is what I tell myself; it is my protective barrier.
My limbs are now moving swiftly, powerfully. My yami puts all of her anger and whatever else she's feeling into the blows. By the time she's finished with her demonstration, had returned to her cross, and left me alone in my sack of flesh, sweat is making my caramel skin clammy, and my breath comes in swift little pants. My muscles are aching, and I fall to my hands and knees. She conveniently forgot to breathe; my punishment, I suppose.
I feel tears welling in my eyes. All I had wanted to do was escape from everything for a while. All I wanted was to loose myself in nothingness. A lot of people use that release, in many different forms. That's what I guess muses are; souls seeking release in one form or another. Beauty is born from desperation; it is all around us, all over the face of the earth; music, sculptures, painting, singing, dancing, writing- there are many forms of this 'divine inspiration'. Why, if so many people are granted this release, why is it denied me? I listen, and receive no answer other than the bitter tears running down my bowed head, dripping onto the mat. A sob tears out of my throat, and I let myself go. I cry, rocking back and forth. Oh no; my mind is starting up again. I can feel it coming; I can feel the tightness weaving its way throughout my body.
Why can't I move the way I want to? Why must it be yami's way? Why always her way? Why doesn't anyone stop her? Don't they know what she does? Can't the feel the evil in me? I guess they can't. Should I? No, they wouldn't understand. Where is my uncle? Oh, he's in bed, sleeping. Yami's asleep in her cross. Should I be asleep too? But I don't want to sleep; I want to practice my form. Oh, wait, I did that; that's why I'm in so much pain. Should I go pray now? But my body is too soar to move. I wanna lay down and sleep. No, sleep hurts; sleep brings the demons to your door, you imbecile. Then what should I do? I really don't know. Maybe I should think? Wait, I am thinking. And I don't want to think. I'm doing it again, arent' I? I should go tell my uncle. No, no, bad idea. He'll just want me to go to that grief counselor, and then everyone will know what I think. They will know I'm crazy. And I'm not crazy.
31, 32, 33, 34, 35......
I am not crazy. I will not think of anything except what Brigid told me. She said, "If you can count to 40, you're not crazy." Brigid used to count to 40, and she wasn't crazy. I am counting to 40, and I am not crazy. I do not remember where or when we met; all I know is it was sometime after I moved to America with my uncle. He never met here; no one else did. Brigid was my friend. I wonder if she still counts to 40. Do you ever count to 40? Does that mean you're crazy? Or does that make you sane? I would really like to know what the difference is. Does it matter? Is there really a difference?
36, 37, 38, 38, 39....
I am not crazy. But why can't I go any further? My eyelids are heavy and falling. My cheeks are chilled and stiff with dried tears. My body is stiff as well; I have been kneeled over for so long. I hadn't even noticed my body, not really; I just took stock of its senses. It's really an amazing thing, you know. For example, a hand consists of 5 fingers, and each finger can move separately. Yet, they act as a whole to grasp things, to curl together to form one hard fists, and they can be separated again. Joints bend and move. It's alive, and feels pain, heat, touch, taste, smell..wow, it's truly incredible. But does anyone ever stop to think about it? I guess no one really appreciates Allah's masterpiece. Was Allah inspired to create the human body? If He was, did it come from desperation? But what ever could cause Allah Almighty to feel like that, to give birth to such a creation? Did anyone ever get in Allah's way? Should I even be thinking these thoughts? No, they are bad thoughts. Why are they bad? What is wrong with me? No, No, No. Nothing is wrong with me. Oh shit. I shouldn't have said that; I don't like to swear. Why don't I like to swear; what's wrong with it? Yami does it all the time. She swears; does that make it ok? No, it's not ok. Swearing is bad. Then, why did I swear? Oh, that's right; I can't remember what comes after 39. What should I do? I should start over. Maybe if I say it aloud, and in Urdu. Why should I count in Urdu? That's the language I grew up with; it's my native tongue. Back then, I wasn't crazy. And I'm not crazy now. I had better start counting now.
Rocking back and forth, hugging myself, and facing the holy city of Mecca, I count. Or am I praying? I can not tell the difference. "Aik, do, teen, chaar, paanach, chaih, saath, aath, no, das..." I reach ten before I pass out, unknown to rest of the living, slumbering world.
Oh, and some things ya need to know; (thankies to nomi!) this is nomi here:
1= one= aik = two= do = three= teen = four= chaar = five= paanch = six= chaih = seven= saath 8= eight= aath 9= nine= no 0= ten= das
ok, now to the ficcie!!!
```````````````````````````````````````
6, 7, 8, 9, 10...
I am not crazy.
11, 12, 13, 14, 15....
I am not crazy.
16, 17, 18, 19, 20....
I am not crazy.
21, 22, 23, 24, 25....
I am not crazy.
26, 27, 28, 29, 30....
I can not sleep. My body is aching with exhaustion, my soul with weariness, but I can not sleep. Thoughts and memories are bouncing around in my head in a jumbled cacophony, mixing the past and present. Who am I, really? Am I the orphan boy from Saudi Arabia, or am I my uncle's American nephew? Where do I fit in? Do I want to fit in? Why doesn't my mother cook breakfast anymore? She's dead; that's right. How could I have forgotten? Is my uncle sleeping? I think he is. I think I should be, too. But I am not; I'm thinking instead. Does thinking mean analyzing what's inside your head, sorting out your thoughts from your emotions? If it is, then I don't really want to think anymore. Funny, I was always thought of as a bright child. Maybe the light bulb is burning out. Oh well; does it really matter? I think I need to stop thinking.
My head is hurting, and I truly do not think I make sense, even to myself. I really must stop thinking, and feeling. There is only one thing I know of, other than prayer, which runs on pure instinct, and that's martial arts. There are many different forms and styles, and subdivisions amongst those. My chosen style is Taekwondo. Well, my yami's, actually. I would really like to practice Tai Chi, but, when I had first moved in with my uncle, and we had a discussion stemming from the need he felt for me to become 'involved' in an activity to 'help me cope with these new adjustments', I had chosen martial arts. When picking my style, right before I said Tai Chi, my yami decided to take control of my mouth. Taekwondo came out instead. There are many aggressive forms of martial arts, but my yami currently seems engrossed with Taekwondo. It is widely known for its aggressive nature, relying purely on physical strength and endurance. At least, according to her. Who am I to argue? At this point, I really don't care; as long as I get the release my entire being craves. As long as I can escape my inner turmoil, I do not care.
I would kneel on my mat and pray, but I am in no fit state to present myself before Allah and petition his help. I am a mess right now. So, I will do the only other thing that grants me release from my hell. I get out of bed and pad my way silently throughout the house, still in my pjs. I exit onto the roof of our apartment building and go, barefoot, across the cold cement to a thick, wide blue mat, where I usually practice when the weather is nice, as it is tonight.
Standing in the center of the mat, I close my eyes, breathing deeply and summoning all my tension and frustrations into one big ball that gets caught in my chest, near my heart, and chokes off my breath. Bowing and straightening, I exhale and loose myself into the rhythm of my art. On the short trip up here, I had barely held back my thoughts, but now my active mind was quiet, focusing on the movements and rhythm of my form. My body moves of its own accord, my eyes closed and my soul concentrating on my coordination, timing, and posture. Everything ebbs and flows together, and I forget that the world and myself exists. There is only pure movement and energy. There is only this moment, this strike, this stance, this kick.
//Hell's bloody bells! What the fuck are you doing, you stupid little twit? You're fucking the whole form up!//
My body jerks then stands completely still, air tensely trapped in my lungs. I can feel the ancient silver against my chest, under my shirt, as my yami stirs.
//What the fuck is this?// She is angry; I have used 'our' body to make a 'mockery' of our art. She takes partial control of my body. I can still fill its movement, but I no longer have any say in its actions. I am merely a passenger along for the ride.
//What the fuck is this?// She mentally snarls, and I wince, my soul shrinking away from hers. She moves my limbs in a smooth, flowing, gentle motion. The movements flow together like a gentle stream of water, instead of a raging, rapidly moving river, which is what they should resemble.
//Here's what they should be, you son of a flea bitten whore.// Yes, the words hurt, but I am numb to the pain. I have long since been used to it. They do not bother me anymore. At least, that is what I tell myself; it is my protective barrier.
My limbs are now moving swiftly, powerfully. My yami puts all of her anger and whatever else she's feeling into the blows. By the time she's finished with her demonstration, had returned to her cross, and left me alone in my sack of flesh, sweat is making my caramel skin clammy, and my breath comes in swift little pants. My muscles are aching, and I fall to my hands and knees. She conveniently forgot to breathe; my punishment, I suppose.
I feel tears welling in my eyes. All I had wanted to do was escape from everything for a while. All I wanted was to loose myself in nothingness. A lot of people use that release, in many different forms. That's what I guess muses are; souls seeking release in one form or another. Beauty is born from desperation; it is all around us, all over the face of the earth; music, sculptures, painting, singing, dancing, writing- there are many forms of this 'divine inspiration'. Why, if so many people are granted this release, why is it denied me? I listen, and receive no answer other than the bitter tears running down my bowed head, dripping onto the mat. A sob tears out of my throat, and I let myself go. I cry, rocking back and forth. Oh no; my mind is starting up again. I can feel it coming; I can feel the tightness weaving its way throughout my body.
Why can't I move the way I want to? Why must it be yami's way? Why always her way? Why doesn't anyone stop her? Don't they know what she does? Can't the feel the evil in me? I guess they can't. Should I? No, they wouldn't understand. Where is my uncle? Oh, he's in bed, sleeping. Yami's asleep in her cross. Should I be asleep too? But I don't want to sleep; I want to practice my form. Oh, wait, I did that; that's why I'm in so much pain. Should I go pray now? But my body is too soar to move. I wanna lay down and sleep. No, sleep hurts; sleep brings the demons to your door, you imbecile. Then what should I do? I really don't know. Maybe I should think? Wait, I am thinking. And I don't want to think. I'm doing it again, arent' I? I should go tell my uncle. No, no, bad idea. He'll just want me to go to that grief counselor, and then everyone will know what I think. They will know I'm crazy. And I'm not crazy.
31, 32, 33, 34, 35......
I am not crazy. I will not think of anything except what Brigid told me. She said, "If you can count to 40, you're not crazy." Brigid used to count to 40, and she wasn't crazy. I am counting to 40, and I am not crazy. I do not remember where or when we met; all I know is it was sometime after I moved to America with my uncle. He never met here; no one else did. Brigid was my friend. I wonder if she still counts to 40. Do you ever count to 40? Does that mean you're crazy? Or does that make you sane? I would really like to know what the difference is. Does it matter? Is there really a difference?
36, 37, 38, 38, 39....
I am not crazy. But why can't I go any further? My eyelids are heavy and falling. My cheeks are chilled and stiff with dried tears. My body is stiff as well; I have been kneeled over for so long. I hadn't even noticed my body, not really; I just took stock of its senses. It's really an amazing thing, you know. For example, a hand consists of 5 fingers, and each finger can move separately. Yet, they act as a whole to grasp things, to curl together to form one hard fists, and they can be separated again. Joints bend and move. It's alive, and feels pain, heat, touch, taste, smell..wow, it's truly incredible. But does anyone ever stop to think about it? I guess no one really appreciates Allah's masterpiece. Was Allah inspired to create the human body? If He was, did it come from desperation? But what ever could cause Allah Almighty to feel like that, to give birth to such a creation? Did anyone ever get in Allah's way? Should I even be thinking these thoughts? No, they are bad thoughts. Why are they bad? What is wrong with me? No, No, No. Nothing is wrong with me. Oh shit. I shouldn't have said that; I don't like to swear. Why don't I like to swear; what's wrong with it? Yami does it all the time. She swears; does that make it ok? No, it's not ok. Swearing is bad. Then, why did I swear? Oh, that's right; I can't remember what comes after 39. What should I do? I should start over. Maybe if I say it aloud, and in Urdu. Why should I count in Urdu? That's the language I grew up with; it's my native tongue. Back then, I wasn't crazy. And I'm not crazy now. I had better start counting now.
Rocking back and forth, hugging myself, and facing the holy city of Mecca, I count. Or am I praying? I can not tell the difference. "Aik, do, teen, chaar, paanach, chaih, saath, aath, no, das..." I reach ten before I pass out, unknown to rest of the living, slumbering world.