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  • Writer's pictureSina

Painful Mindfulness



The ground is breathing and it has heartbeat, at least for Daren it feels like it has. The blood is moving around him, whatever it is elasticity, coagulation or perceptual errors resulted from his tearful eyes, it is far beyond his keen, so he thinks his blood is dying, just like small movements in the flesh of a recently beheaded cattle. Nonetheless, he is well aware that he is not dying, there is too much pain and too little blood for that.

Small old lamp twitches over his head, however the man’s shadow is undisturbed, like a mountain, like a lion, like a knife. So, the boy stays motionless, like a water, like a pencil, like the sun.

It is the break of the day, and the morning twilight seems everlasting. Hafiz said the early morning is a gift for sicks and the Misérables. However, the sweet thought of early morning sleep does not cross the mind of the young boy. The pain, the excruciating pain and the fear, the horrifying fear are part of him, nevertheless he does not wish them to pass as he is not in pain nor he is afraid, his feeling do not define him, they are merely warning. Pain means you could die, and fear means more beating could come, so he holds his body still. Daren is lying on the cement floor catatonic, covered in his piss and blood, observing how the yellow water dissolute his pure dark blood.

The moment is under heavy time dilation, and each second feel like eternity, there is no tomorrow, no thought or feeling but fear and pain which are only part of him. Suddenly, the shadow moves, causing the boy’s heart to skip a beat, however due to extreme muscle spasm his body does not twitch, thanks heavens. The shadow starts walking, naked cement floor and walls echoes the footsteps sound, promising more distance in each footstep. Swiftly, he let go of the holding air. Relaxing exhale loosen his every muscle and he pee a bit more; this is what a yoga instructor would call a meditative ocean breath. Alan Watts would be proud…

An ominous reassuring sound whispers: you are safe. The self has been awakened.

The Devil possess the snake, to sneak pass the gate of heaven, to tempt the Adam to choose the pass of least resistance.

He sees himself from above, as self makes one to do. Suddenly he comes to a conclusion. Starting to move purposefully. Unable to stand he start to crawl, creeping like a snake toward the kitchen. He did something extremely dangerous my mistake, which was equal to eating the forbidden fruit for someone is his condition, he had thought about the future. There is ten feet from that small bleak room that he knows as living room to kitchen. There are no steps or doors, being poor serves his circumstance right. He doesn’t experience no more pain. Guess there is an upside to letting go, there is no pain, no stress, only numbness resulted from dissociated cognition and emotions.

After ten minutes of struggling, he arrives to the room that he knows as kitchen. Its just a room, only characteristics to it are the stove and the basket of the dishes. It is beach dark however he doesn’t face a problem in locating the basket.

He slipped in the darkness and now he has to pay. He picks up a knife. The thought of the tomorrow and the day after tomorrow flying around in his head as wherever a corpse is the vultures will gather. When the moment is eternal, the pain becomes everlasting. Through the pain you grow they say, however a never-ending pain is just there, just like death, it doesn’t gives you any perspectives, it just end everything and everlasting pain gives you only pain. That’s the idea behind hell, for many it is cleansing, but for some who are supposed to last forever in hell, is the ultimate punishment. As the pain itself is bearable the thought of lasting pain is the actual hell. For him the thought of tomorrow pain is the last nail to his coffin. As he put the rusty knife in the middle of his chest, he murmurs: I cannot take it no more.

They say the angles extinguished hell fire numerus times, each time it reignited, and after a thousand time dousing it, it dimed enough to be transferred to earth. He knows that, yet if you did read between the lines, you would know he is already in hell.

Holding the knife right on his chest, he thinks about how he wants to do this. He doesn’t know about stabbing, or cutting major veins or arteries, so he begins to push. Immediately, he feels that something is wrong, the pain differs from before. His hands aren’t in his control. I heard about suicidal people who swore their finger couldn’t literally pull the trigger. So, I don’t judge him too harshly. He can’t pierce the bone, yet he tries desperately again and again. He tries to look at the slippery bloody knife in his shivering hands, but there is no light.

And the God made the knife blunt so it wouldn’t kill the Esmail; nevertheless, the Ibrahim is blind in darkness, beaten, crying in pain and frustration, pushing the blade with determination, screaming in his mind: you should die. Suddenly the God intervenes: Allah’ o Akbar (god is greater). He stands with an energy that he didn’t know he had. Hides the knife poorly in dishes, and walks out. The first flush of morning washes his tearful face like a wave, more tears start to fall, he raises his hand toward the sun, and he collapses.

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