#gyushuaabo22yl

Senja kian tenggelam di ufuk Barat. Dengan penerangan yang agak redup, Choi Yido menatap cermin di hadapannya dan wajah yang bak pinang dibelah dua dengan ibunya pun menatap balik. Rambut hitam tertata rapi. Mata gelap yang memukau. Pipi tinggi, rahang tirus, bibir tipis tanpa cela. Paras yang cantik dan tampan sekaligus—androgini. Tubuhnya melesat tinggi ketika pubertas menyapanya lima tahun yang lalu. Sayangnya, ia tetap tidak bisa mengalahkan tinggi badan rival abadinya, Kibum.

Mengesampingkan bayangan Kibum yang membuat lidahnya sepat, Yido mengusak rambutnya ke belakang dengan tangan, mengacaukan tatanan yang telah diusungnya sejak ia memulai hari. Tidak ada kewajiban untuk tampil formal di muka publik malam ini, jadi ia tidak memedulikan penampilannya sama sekali.

Surat telah dilayangkan ke rumah Paman Mingyu. Sang utusan telah melapor pada ayahnya bahwa tugas telah selesai dilaksanakan. Namun, hingga detik ini, tak ada balasan dari rumah keluarga Kim.

Gelisah? Tentu. Bukannya Yido tidak mengetahui bagaimana perasaan Paman Mingyu terhadap prospek dirinya melamar Gyuri. Sejak awal, Paman Mingyu jelas-jelas menentang mereka. Paman Joshua selalu bilang kalau Paman Mingyu hanya orangtua menggelikan yang kelewat sayang pada putrinya (yang mana menurut Yido sangat masuk akal; Toh ini Kim Gyuri yang mereka bicarakan). Tetapi, separuh hati sang Alpha muda gelisah kalau-kalau alasan Paman Mingyu menentang adalah karena Yido dianggap tidak pantas bersanding dengan putrinya.

Ego Alpha-nya terusik. Jika ada yang pantas mencintai Gyuri, maka seharusnya pangeran kerajaan penerus negara ini adalah kandidat nomor satu, bukan? Sedari kecil ia ditempa oleh pelajaran di bidang tata negara, sosial politik, militer dan sejarah kerajaan, selain etiket dan budaya. Dirinya lah yang paling paham apa yang dibutuhkan negara ini beserta masyarakat di dalamnya. Ayahnya tidak mengajak Yido turut serta dalam pelaporan para warga setiap paginya sejak ia remaja untuk menjadikan pengetahuannya sia-sia belaka. Ia bahkan berhasil mengimplementasikan taktiknya dalam mengenyahkan potensi pemberontakan di sisi Utara dekat perbatasan beberapa bulan yang lalu.

Semenjak Kak Seongso menunjuk Kak Nara sebagai pengantinnya, orangtuanya telah mempersiapkan Yido sebagai penerus utama tampuk kepemimpinan.

Tapi kenapa Paman Mingyu masih saja merasa itu tidak cukup?

Apa lagi yang harus Yido lakukan agar Paman Mingyu bersedia memberi tangan Gyuri kepadanya??

Pikirannya kalut oleh berbagai suara yang saling bertentangan. Sekali lagi, pemuda berusia sembilan belas itu menghela napas. Kemeja putihnya yang terbuat dari sutra kualitas terbaik itu kini nampak acak-acakan, hasil kebiasaan buruknya yang suka berjalan kian-kemari ketika tenggelam dalam pemikirannya sendiri—mengelilingi peraduan, bahkan satu istana, tanpa sadar. Ibunya bahkan pernah menyadarkan putra tertuanya itu dengan menepuk kepalanya kuat-kuat, mengejutkan ayahnya yang tak sengaja menyaksikan kejadian itu.

Setiap detik terbuang tanpa jawaban dari keluarga Kim adalah setiap detik keyakinan akan bobot dirinya tercungkil mengenaskan. Ia perlu tahu reaksi Paman Mingyu dan Paman Joshua atas surat itu dan berdiam diri di istana tidak akan membawakannya jawaban yang ia cari.

Tugasnya sebagai pangeran kerajaan untuk hari itu sudah selesai. Saatnya Choi Yido menyelinap keluar dengan memanjat tembok istana dan mengganti mahkota emasnya dengan topi pet sederhana yang senantiasa dikenakan anak penjaja koran di jalanan tengah kota.

Ah, ya, lihat kan?

Bagaimanapun, Choi Yido adalah anak ibunya.

“Your job is to collect good ideas. The more good ideas you collect, the more you can choose from to be influenced by.”

Soundtrack:

Pieces of Eight – Styx (1978) The Promise Ring – Jon Anderson 1997

---

---

There are so many terrific and enjoyable creative minds in the world. I don't think man was made to function at the intellectual or creative speed we are asked to. And it's mostly a request by the monied, the powerful, the technocrats—they need us more than we need them.

The Machine and the Muse

A creative mind can be just that with nothing more than imagination, a pile of rocks, or a marking tool. But we've been driven to believe that for our creativity to be valid, it must be packaged promoted and sold.

Enter social media.

We make, make, make and the techbro's take our work, which we give FOR FREE, in the hopes of some kind of recognition or validation. But, we can't keep up. There just aren't enough hours in the day to feed the damned algorithm with content, so we're all looking for an edge, the thing to get us just one more post, one more video, one more—thing. Maybe THAT will be the one to move the masses to love us and support what we are doing.

What a joke. What an abomination of a joke.

In desperation, we start looking for tools to help us make faster. You can't speed up creativity, it happens at the speed of thought. It always will. Producing the song, dance, prose or painting is the part that takes time.

No problem! Tech-bros to the rescue: here's A.I.! It will solve the pesky problem of not being able to produce FAST enough by shortening the gap between your idea and clicking upload.

The Digital Demon

It started with spell-check, now it's writing our songs, playing our music, drawing our pictures and making our videos. We just have whisper to the digital demon our invocation of creativity and ZAP: our idea exists. Only slightly bastardized, a bit off. Still very cool looking and if we're honest, better than we'd have done without the electric god.

So faster and faster we go. Years became, months. They became weeks. And now those weeks are days, hours and minutes. Humanity is pumping out creativity faster than we never conceived.

The irony, the rub, the kick in the god damned teeth: Every ITERATION is just more REPETITION.

When was the last time you saw something that didn't remind you of another thing. And not in an easter-egg-I-didn't-notice-it-at-first kind of way (think X-wing battles in Star Wars and the delight you had when you learned they were modeled after WWII dogfights). I mean every 'creative' product is now just reconstituted thing from before.

Oh, there's the occasional spark. But mostly, we're just retreading the same vehicles created in the first three-quarters of the 20th century.

Everything has been said before. Ironic, I know.

In Praise of Simple

The rambling preamble is to comment on the delight of minds like Austin Kleon.

He's written a clutch of books like Show Your Work!, Steal Like an Artist, and the one that put him on the map, Newspaper Blackout.

The thing Mister Kleon nailed was: Simplicity, he was ahead of the people-don't-read-anymore curve and his reconstituted work felt like anyone could do it.

Newspaper Blackout in particular felt like something anyone could achieve. I tried it. Anyone cannot.

And that's the point of this semi-screed: The simple stuff is the hardest, but it's also what we enjoy best. The simple song lyric which hits just right (I Love you drawn to a crescendo), the simple image (a banana taped to a wall). Like Miles Davis said, it's not the notes, it is the space between them.

The Wolf is learning that simplicity isn’t silence — it’s restraint. And restraint is the hardest art of all.

---

---

2025-10-06 13:02:00

---

#essay #100daystooffset #writing #rant

A Brief Summary: Abbreviated book reviews for summer reading recommendations.

• “What Did Dinosaurs Think About?” by Jean Le Loeuff: this book was initially on the 14 day loan display, but I renewed it 3 times because I liked it that much that I kept re-reading portions of the book! Please note that the author of this opus is a world renowned paleontologist and museum director, which is to say that this is not written by a dimwitted Guardian columnist “science communicator” – and while this book is written at an accessible reading level, it does presuppose the reader has some basic knowledge regarding dinosaurs and their unique biology. One of the better takeaways that I got from this book was that the encephelation quotient of the triceratops was commensurate to that of a dolphin, making triceratops the smartest (best) dinosaur. Educational & Entertaining, 5/5 Stars
• “Magic in Islam” by Michael M. Knight: I have apparently been tricked into reading a book on Islam by a white American, Allahumma irhamni. Oh look a degree from Harvard, that's not suspicious at all! Now if I'm done with the ad hominem, we can go back to reviewing books. The most salient points in this book are made towards the beginning by examining the cultural frameworks going back to Alexander The Great's employ of Babylonian magos (priests) for celestial navigation, and the heuristics of applying the label of “magic” to any system not properly understood. The book goes on to explain the linear cultural history of Islam, the tautology of it's theology, and accounting for cultural exchanges. This book is okay beginners material for new converts to Islam, but contains very little information about actual sorcery; useful source material for disproving stupid Wicca & Thelema. 2/5 Stars
• “The Vanishing Church” by Ryan Burge: I often recommend the book “Bowling Alone” to people, because it was written about 20yrs prior to everything it predicted coming to fruition. Mr. Burge's book is written in a similar vein, examining the weaponization of Christendom by the political class, trends in declining membership attendance, statistical extrapolations and potential solutions to the problems. Refreshingly objective and absent of superstition. Useful for intel re: church planting . 4/5 Stars
• “Letters To The Human Race...From The Cat” by Vicky Hall: there needed to be a fun book on this list. The author, Ms. Halls, is a veterinary nurse and feline specialist belonging to the Association of Pet Behavior Counsellors, and has published a surfeit of books on caring for cats. However, this book is not a thick tome of interpreting the nuances of kittens – it's a series of missives written 'in-character' from the perspective of cats, and their waxing philosophies thereof. It's also got cute cartoons in there! I read fun stuff too. It's cheery and whimsical. 5/5 Stars

And you nodded in admonishment and felt their pity

stare out from their screens and screams and the girls and their

hearts used their eyes as hands, bobbling through their TVs like

you must be the manager and that’s a really important job, so here’s to

being

shot

down

the table makes drink so appealing because apparently killing yourself is about

loving life  its liquid lunch so you can put it back in the sun to sleep,

until you wake in a stupor to find the meeting is still happening and it’s ok to not

want.life

begging across the wires.

There’s no fight left here, no war on these shores.

The surveyors, the predators, they’re still sipping coffee on the oak as you

plan your exit.

Run.

#poetry

Well today was a little more productive, though my congestion is still feeling really bad. I tried going to urgent care today, but the wait time was over two hours. Maybe I will try tomorrow.

My mom tried all sorts of home remedies on me. While it did not get rid of the issue itself, it did alleviate a lot of my symptoms. I feel a little better, but not great entirely.

I got a bit of a productivity kick. I finally cleared all the clean laundry that has been piling up on my bed, cleared the dirty laundry that had cluttered my floor and cleaned up my nightstand. I hope tomorrow I get another kick and finish painting my trim project, and clear the top of my dresser. Those are my goals before I leave for two weeks – besides packing, of course.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

Today has been the worst I have felt the entire time I have not felt well. I did some things in the morning, but then ended up napping all through the afternoon. I did not advance on anything, I missed my pottery class, and I got some really good rest. The rest of the week has to be more productive than this, but I don’t know what to do with how I feel. The congestion is just not resolving itself on its own.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

I. The Wall of Secondary Transmission

To step into the landscape of human contemplation without a mediating authority is, for the modern seeker, an act of quiet, terrifying radicalism. For over a millennium, the journey toward the Divine within the Islamic matrix has run through secondary transmission. We have been conditioned to believe that the uninitiated heart lacks the equipment to encounter the Primary Text directly. Between the seeker and the Word, we are told, must stand a towering scaffolding: the historical consensus of medieval jurists, the complex chains of hadith attribution, the esoteric lineages of the masters, and the dense, multi-layered commentaries accumulated across centuries of empire.

This scaffolding was not built out of malice. It served as protective armour — preserving language, codifying law, stabilising dynasties, providing structural boundaries for vast communities spanning from the Atlantic to the Bay of Bengal. Yet as the armour grew thicker, the living body beneath it became immobilised. The secondary tradition — originally a bridge to the Divine Presence — hardened into a wall. The map eclipsed the territory. The testimony of long-dead authorities regarding their own spiritual experiences replaced the immediate, existential demand that the individual undergo their own revelation of the heart.

The crisis of contemporary religious life lies in this over-mediated saturation. When the Divine speaks, the modern believer does not hear a living voice echoing in the depths of their own consciousness. They hear a chorus of medieval proxies telling them what they ought to feel, how they must phrase their longing, and which historical factions they are obligated to inherit. The text becomes an artefact of archaeology rather than an engine of transformation — read as a museum piece, dissected by historians or weaponised by ideologues, while its core nature as a living, dynamic alteration of human perception lies dormant.

What is required is not another reform movement that reshuffles secondary authorities — substituting one set of medieval scholars for a preferred set of modern ideologues. What is required is a direct, unmediated return to Irfan — to raw, gnostic realisation of Divine Proximity — derived exclusively from the unadulterated primary source: the Quran itself.

To speak of an unmediated Irfan is to assert a revolutionary premise: that the Quran possesses an inherent, self-sufficient clarity (Tibyan) that speaks directly to the human soul without needing permission from external validation structures. The sacred text is not a locked vault whose key was lost in the ninth century. It is an open, living mirror (Mir'at) designed to interact dynamically with the unique interior landscape of every human being who approaches it with presence (Hudur) and sincerity (Sidq).

This approach does not deny history. It refuses to allow history to usurp the place of God. If the Quran is indeed the final, uncorrupted discourse of the Eternal to the temporal creature, it cannot be bound to the historical contingencies of the Umayyad or Abbasid courts, nor can its transformative power be gated by physical lineages or institutional hierarchies. The Divine Voice addresses the individual directly in the solitude of their own existence: “Read your book; sufficient is yourself this day against you as an accountant” (17:14). The primary locus of revelation's impact is not the library, the court, or the lodge. It is the human heart. To bypass the secondary tradition is not intellectual arrogance. It is the ultimate act of spiritual humility — a refusal to take refuge in the secondhand experiences of others, and an agreement to stand naked, accountable, and receptive before the Unmediated Word.

---

II. The Great Split: Soul Without Text, Text Without Soul

Survey the historical intellectual landscape of Islam and you witness a structural fracture that has crippled its internal evolution for centuries. A tragic divergence between the Sufi path of interiority and the Quranist path of scriptural purism.

Each movement possessed half of a unifying truth. Each identified a vital organ of the spiritual body. Yet because they developed in opposition or isolation from one another, both degenerated into their own distinct forms of imbalance. Sufism kept the soul but lost its grounding in the primary text. Quranism kept the text but stripped away the living mechanics of the soul.

The Sufi Trajectory: Soul Without the Text

Classical Sufism understood the human interior with breathtaking brilliance. The early ascetics and medieval gnostics mapped the subtle centres of perception (Lata'if), the nuances of spiritual states (Ahwal), the permanent stations of transformation (Maqamat), and the treacherous illusions of the ego (Ghurur al-Nafs). They understood that religion without interior transformation is merely social conformity, and that the ultimate purpose of divine guidance is the liberation of the heart from the bondage of created things (fana') into the abiding reality of Divine Presence (baqa').

But as Sufism evolved from a spontaneous interior movement into institutionalised orders (tariqas), its anchor in the primary text dragged, then snapped. To justify its complex hierarchical structures, its elaborate physical rituals, its cults of personality around the Shaykh, and its hyper-allegorical hermeneutics, institutional Sufism leaned increasingly on secondary and tertiary traditions. It absorbed vast bodies of weak or fabricated hadith, legendary hagiographies, and speculative cosmological frameworks borrowed from external philosophical systems.

In many Sufi circles, the Quran was subtly demoted. It became a liturgical talisman — chanted for sound, merit, or blessings (Barakah) — rather than an active, authoritative manual for psychological and ethical wrestling. The living words of the master, the specific wird of the order, or the esoteric visions of a saint often carried more practical weight in directing the disciple's daily life than the explicit commands of the Quranic text itself. The esoteric interpretation (ta'wil) frequently lost its tether to the linguistic and structural reality of the revelation, floating into arbitrary allegorisation where any verse could be made to mean whatever the master's intuition claimed.

The Quranist Trajectory: Text Without the Soul

On the opposite side, the impulse toward Quranic centralism re-crystallised in the modern era as a fierce, rationalist rejection of secondary traditions, hadith corpora, and medieval jurisprudence. Its proponents recognised a fundamental truth: the secondary tradition had introduced contradictions, extreme legalism, violence, and sectarian division that directly contradicted the holistic, merciful, and pristine character of the Quran. They declared that God's word was complete, fully detailed (Mufassal), and self-sufficient.

Yet in their zeal to purge the faith of secondary corruptions, the vast majority of Quran-centric thinkers committed a fatal reductionism. In throwing out the bathwater of hagiography, they threw out the baby of interiority.

Adopting a hyper-rationalist, often dry legalistic mindset, they began to read the Quran as if it were a physical constitution, a political manifesto, or a scientific textbook. They flattened its profound, multi-layered poetic cadences into literalist directives. They approached the text almost entirely through the intellect (Aql) in its most instrumental, analytical sense, ignoring the heart (Qalb) as the primary organ of reception.

A modern Quranist reads the text and focuses on legal parameters, historical critiques, or sociopolitical structures. They fail to ask: What is this verse doing to my ego right now? How does this passage map my internal darkness? What is the contemplative mechanics of this Divine Name upon my subtle consciousness? In removing the interior vocabulary developed by the mystics, Quranism became spiritually arid. It offered a clean, uncorrupted, highly rational text — but left the seeker without a contemplative discipline, without a framework for psychological purification, and without a method for experiencing the transcendent reality to which the text perpetually points.

The Missing Synthesis

The seeker is forced into a false dichotomy: choose a rich, deep, but superstition-laden and authoritarian Sufism that compromises scriptural integrity — or a pristine, rational, but spiritually flat Quranism that offers no path for the transformation of the soul.

This book stands in the space created by that false dichotomy. It asserts that the resolution lies in an unmediated Quranic Irfan — a synthesis that takes the profound interior focus, psychological nuance, and mystical longing of Sufism, and re-anchors it exclusively within the linguistic, structural, and symbolic universe of the Quran. We do not need medieval hadith collections to map the human soul; the Quran has already mapped it with absolute precision. We do not need post-scriptural lineages to experience Divine Proximity; the Quran is itself the ultimate vehicle of proximity (al-Habl al-Matin). By bringing the contemplative depth of Irfan back to the self-sufficient text, we restore both the soul to the text and the text to the soul.

---

III. The Architecture of Reading: The Quran as Living Mirror (Mir'at al-Anfus)

How do we approach the Sacred Text if not as a legal constitution or a historical artefact? We overhaul our hermeneutic stance — our fundamental posture of consciousness when we open the book.

The foundational shift this work offers is the recognition of the Quran as Mir'at al-Anfus — the Living Mirror of the Soul.

Most readers approach the text linearly and objectively, standing outside it. They view the Quran as an object to be analysed, memorised, parsed for historical data, or mined for legal rulings. The reader remains the static subject operating upon the text as the passive object.

The paradigm of the Living Mirror reverses this dynamic. When you open the Quran under the posture of Mir'at al-Anfus, you cease to be the analyser. You become the analysed. The text is not a passive object under your gaze. It is a radiant, active mirror reflecting into the dark corners of your own interior consciousness. The verse does not merely describe an event that happened fourteen hundred years ago in the Hijaz, nor a cosmological drama in a distant heaven. It describes the immediate, real-time dynamics of your own mind, ego, and spirit.

In the linear posture, the mind moves outward to inspect a historical artefact or extract a rule, leaving the core self unexamined. In the mirror posture, the direction of inquiry flips entirely: the scriptural word acts as an active lens through which your current psychological condition, subtle motives, and internal veils are brought into stark, unavoidable clarity.

The Principle of Simultaneous Horizons (Afaq and Anfus)

This hermeneutic is grounded in the Quranic declaration:

“We will show them Our signs in the horizons and within themselves until it becomes clear to them that it is the Truth.” (41:53)

The text establishes a perfect equivalence between the outer macrocosm (Afaq, the horizons) and the inner microcosm (Anfus, the self). Every historical narrative, every description of nature, every cosmological depiction in the Quran operates on both tiers simultaneously.

When the Quran speaks of Pharaoh (Fir'awn), it is not merely recording a dead Egyptian monarch. It is naming the archetypal impulse of imperial arrogance, self-deification, and compulsive control that resides within your own ego. Pharaoh is the part of you that says, “I am your Lord Most High” (79:24), demanding total compliance from your internal faculties and suppressing the divine instincts within you.

When the Quran speaks of Moses (Musa), it is mapping the emerging spiritual consciousness within you — the fragile, hesitant, yet divinely inspired impulse called to confront the entrenched Pharaoh of your ego. The wilderness of Sinai is your period of spiritual disorientation. The Burning Bush is the unmediated intrusion of Divine Presence into the ordinary landscape of your mundane life.

When the Quran describes the Sea, the Wind, the Barren Land, and the Reviving Rain, these are not geographical features. They are precise psychological topographies. The barren land is the hardened, heedless heart (Qalb Qasi). The rain is the descent of Revelation (Tanzil). The green vegetation that bursts forth is the awakening of spiritual virtues (Ihsan) from the fertile soil of a purified consciousness.

Tadabbur as Contemplative Penetration

To read the Quran as a Living Mirror requires elevating our practice from Tilawah (mechanical recitation) or Tafsir (historical-linguistic explanation) to Tadabbur (contemplative penetration).

The root d-b-r relates to the back, the end, the hidden depths of a thing. Tadabbur is the deliberate, slow, immersive practice of looking behind the immediate textual surface to discern its ultimate impact upon the soul. It is an act of radical interior listening (Insaat).

In the posture of Tadabbur, the reader does not rush through pages to complete a chapter count. A single verse, a single Divine Name, or even a single phrase may be held in the field of conscious awareness for hours, days, or weeks. The verse is repeated orally and mentally until its acoustic resonance breaks through the conceptual, analytical mind and penetrates the emotional and spiritual core.

As the verse echoes within, the reader asks:

Where does this verse meet my current state of consciousness?

What idol (sanam) within my heart is this phrase commanding me to smash?

What fear, attachment, or illusion of control is this Divine Name seeking to dissolve?

The Text as Active Resonator

Under this approach, the Quran ceases to be a book in the conventional human sense. It becomes an active kinetic force — a spiritual technology designed to reconfigure human perception, shatter emotional patterns, and dissolve the illusions of the ego.

The linguistic cadence of the original Arabic — its sudden shifts in person (Iltifat), its thunderous apocalyptic rhythms, its gentle, whispering assurances, its precise use of contrast between Light (Nur) and Darkness (Zulumat) — is an acoustic representation of the Divine Attributes operating upon human matter. When read with an awakened heart, the text acts as a chemical catalyst introduced into a liquid solution: it causes the impurities of the soul to precipitate to the bottom, separating the Truth (al-Haqq) from the fleeting falsehood (al-Batil).

To enter The Unveiled Recitation is to step into this mirror. To cease using the text as an instrument to judge others, to prove sectarian points, or to satisfy intellectual curiosity. To stand exposed before the Silent Horizon of the Divine Word — allowing the text to strip away every secondary pretension, every historical distortion, and every egoic veil, until nothing remains in the field of perception except the Unmediated Presence of the Eternal, speaking to the soul in the timeless Now.

Plaiting the tactile indifference of a parting disposition, he scoops a seeded reverence. Always plucking. Always stranded beneath a lofty crown. Always his awl weighs the scratchings of a scandalized plot, but he roots no spurning wonder. Inconsistencies forever draft his hand.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

La estatua partida por la mitad yacía en el suelo, sobre un líquido entre negro y burdeos. Salvia de vino ritual.

En lo alto de la atalaya, la mitad inferior quedaba ligeramente inclinada, partida, inacabada.

El grupo de jóvenes Cuervos (así se llamaban les monjes Negros aún aprendiendo) rodearon en la estatua de roca, que representaba una figura humana en calma, alzando los brazos, esperando algo. Ahora sus brazos partidos no podían sostener nada.

Sus caras eran una colección de expresiones: espanto, sorpresa, curiosidad e incluso, algunas, excitación. La expectación causaba un efecto particular en cada une de elles.

Todes sabían lo que ocurría cuando la salvia de vino se derramaba, aunque no esperaban que fuera tan dramático. Un Cuervo que venía corriendo desde la torre de herramientas se quitó la capa negra y lanzó un golpe preciso sobre la estatua con un mazo. Repitió y repitió hasta partir la cabeza de la estatua.

Les estudiantes se acercaron más, y la salvia de vino brotó del interior. Otra de elles colocó una vasija debajo, procurando que no le cayese nada en la piel.

— Esta tarde se celebrará el ritual. — declaró en voz alta y firme el Cuervo del mazo. El resto asintieron y se miraron mutuamente.

Había que encontrar a la Golondrina que había escapado. Pero todes le temían. Ya de muy niña había encogido corazones con sus gritos furiosos en la noche.

Las telas bordadas cuidadosamente tejidas estaban ya listas, tendidas sobre una mesa en la estancia que daba al patio más grande.

Un Cuervo usó un cazo de madera para esparcir salvia sobre las pequeñas telas, aunque temblaba un poco.

Les demás esperaban pacientemente sentades en el suelo, tenses. El Cuervo más joven estaba de pie, junto a la salida, custodiando dos jarras casi tan altas cómo ella.

Todes, salvo el Cuervo de las jarras, cogieron las telas y, a la vez las colocaron sobre sus ojos. Algunes gimieron, otres solo se estremecieron, incluso les había que se retorcieron en el suelo. Al cabo de unos minutos el Cuervo de las jarras comenzó a lanzar agua sobre las caras de sus compañeres, y poco a poco los gemidos remitieron. Todes tenían la cara irritada, pero sólo uno tenía ahora los ojos rojos como la salvia, y sangraba un poco.

Solo él sería capaz de avistar a la Golondrina. Y no había tiempo que perder, saldría esa misma noche.

Todo estaba listo. Le habían quitado su capa, y solo llevaba el traje gris, un cuchillo y agua de flores que debía servirle tanto para beber como para aliviar el dolor.

Todo ocurrió deprisa, cerraron la fortaleza tras de él, escuchó el roce de las capas sobre la hierba, estaba solo. Miró hacia el bosque, estaba oscuro, pero veía. Y avistaba una luz espesa que cargaba el ambiente a su alrededor; la Golondrina.

Le habían enseñado desde pequeño a desear su caza.

Le habían enseñado a querer correr detrás de esa luz, a abrazar el dolor de sus ojos ardiendo con la promesa de que al capturar a la Golondrina, el dolor remitiría.

Miró una vez más la luz. Pensó en los gritos desde la Atalaya, que había escuchado varias noches.

Su corazón latía con fuerza. Cogió el cuchillo. Apretó el cuchillo. Se secó la sangre de los ojos. Tiró el cuchillo.

Y, apartando la vista de esa luz, buscó su nuevo camino.

I just got back from seeing the meteor shower. I’m happy.

Celebrating 10 years of exploration, discovery, and adventure in the vast, ever-expanding universe of No Man's Sky.

Happy Anniversary to Hello Games, No Man's Sky. It is 10 years, and hopefully another 10. A sequel would be great. Thanks, Sean Murray, for a great game that started rough but has grown into a masterpiece, and all free after initial purchase. I don't play as much as I used to. When I do jump back in, I am there just to explore. I don't really care if I never reach the center of the universe. Game companies can take lessons from you, the bad and the good. The good has outweighed all the bad.

Look at all the free DLC content over 10 years:

For a more in depth review and history of this game see this post I made No Man’s Sky – Nearly 10 Years Later

#entertainment #gaming

Qur'an 2:1 — Surah al-Baqarah (The Cow), Ayah 1

It contains no words. No triliteral roots. No morphological patterns — no Form I through X, no verbal nouns, no participles. No grammatical case, no mood, no number, no gender. Just three disconnected graphemes: Alif. Lam. Mim. Raw phonetic units stripped of every mechanism of derivation.

The decompilation protocol — isolate word, identify root, extract raw process — halts here. There is nothing to isolate. Nothing to extract. Forcing these letters into triliteral roots — drilling Alif into أ-ل-ف (”to become familiar”) or Mim into م-و-م (”to be comprehensive”) — is speculation, not morphology. Classical lexicography does not support it. The tools simply do not fit the material.

The only honest rendering is the most mechanical one: three spoken sounds, in sequence. Nothing more. Anything beyond that is fabrication wearing the mask of analysis.

Download. Listen, put audio on infinite repeat. Let the meaning sink into your bones.