(edit: this has confused many people but when I say revert here I mean muslim convert. Muslims call anyone who joins the religion a revert)
.
the full first part of the ayah/verse is : [... whoever takes a lifeâunless as a punishment for murder or mischief in the landâit will be as if they killed all of humanity; and whoever saves a life, it will be as if they saved all of humanity...]- Surah Al-Maâidah, 5:32
auto immune disorders happen when the immune system ignores regulatory factors and begins attacking healthy bodily tissues, due to what scientists refer to as "sheer love of the game"
Peeling off the broken breastplate of a stoic knight who only fights and never speaks, just to realize thereâs nothing in there. Not metaphoricallyâthe armor is literally empty. It doesnât appear to affect him. If the armor stays mostly in the shape of a knight, he just gets back up to keep fighting. But with the chest plate off he just sits there, equally impervious to curiosity as I reach up into the cavity where his body mightâve gone. Stubbornly, no answers are found anywhere in there.
So I forge him a new breastplate and on the inside, because I know he has plenty of room, I put a little pocket. Not big enough to hold anything functional of course. Just a little extra piece to see what heâll do with it.
He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.
Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy whoâs got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didnât say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.
There are plenty of other forges. Iâm not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. Weâre pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures Iâd put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so Iâm not sure why I asked.
Thereâs not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs Iâve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though Iâve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where itâs barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, Iâll never understand. But itâs a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.
When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. Itâs like heâs watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. Iâm careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. Thereâs no room to add more this time.
He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like heâs looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. Thereâs nothing there. I ask him whatâs wrong, and again he points. Itâs the most emotion Iâve ever seen from him, and itâs barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.
I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When Iâm finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesnât put it on right away. I ask him if somethingâs still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I canât add anything else. Even if he could ask, thereâs no room left.
Next time he comes back, thereâs nothing wrong with his armorâhe lets me check to make sure. I ask him what heâs doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. Itâs in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but Iâll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but Iâm not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. Itâs candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. Itâs flavored with cinnamon. Iâm surprised he let me take it.
He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but itâs my own fault so I canât complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.
One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him Iâll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave itâs dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where heâs going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when Iâve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesnât move to leave.
I ask if heâs going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know heâs not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him Iâm grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him Iâve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him itâs a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.
It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone elseâs empty armor with trinkets. Iâm not sure if thatâs really why he does it. I tell him I donât have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. Iâm not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe itâs nothing at all.
â
I didnât edit this even a little bit. Thanks for reading!
At first I read âas an optometristâ and was just ready to accept the statement as is like oh yeah maybe some kind of pun about if peopleâs views werenât clouded by hatred and biases they could be normal about aro and aspec in general but then I reread it was like âsigh, time for my nearsighted ass to go back to the optometrist.â
Today the doctors said something terrifying: if my mother isnât treated now, she will die.
This is not emotionalâitâs a race against death.
Act now, or lose her forever.
My mother is not dying because treatment is impossible, but because help is not reaching her, Life or death depends on action.
Iâm not asking for tears.
Iâm not asking for sympathy.
Iâm asking you not to be another delay.
Right now, you are either someone who helped save a life, or someone who scrolled past and let a mother die.
areudirty
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
gummygunk
vaporwave
