The Beauty of Athan

Indeed, this anger is the spark lit by Satan in the heart of the son of Adam.

It takes all my willpower not to slam my door. Once I am alone, I stand there and let it consume me, envelop me in its madness, and with it I become mad. I do not try to try to resist it; instead I embrace it like an unwelcomed guest. My face is warm with fury and my world turns a little red and hazy around the edges. My pulse is in my ears and my fists are balled up tightly, ready to land a blow.

I feel destructive. I want to smash something, punch a hole through a wall, shred something to pieces; I want to destroy something beautiful.

And I want chaos. Oh, how I want chaos.

And just as quickly as I became diseased with this deadly sin, I want out. I want control, I need control. It’s too warm in here, I need to cool down. I need to steady myself.

Starting with my hands, I try to release my iron grip on rage. But I can’t.

Maybe I need to sit down. Yes, I should sit down.

I yank open my bedroom window and sit as close to it as possible. The air is cool and brisk, and I shiver. I try to focus on breathing, try to clam my racing pulse.

But I’m still angry. Why won’t it leave me?

So I lie down and warm tears roll down my cheeks. I wipe them away and my palms sting. That’s when I notice the four red small crescent-shaped scratches in my palms, probably from how tightly I had made a fist earlier.

Time will be the only thing to exorcise this demon within me.

So I wait.

And I wait.

How long did I wait? It must have been hours, but it could have been minutes.

My laptop’s Athan goes off. It’s time to pray ‘Asr.

Go Do Your Homework. Or Something.

I don’t understand thirteen year olds who feel the need to insert f-bombs before every adjective in their facebook statuses, wall posts, comments, etc. I’m pretty sure we would all understand what they were trying to say, sans the obscenities.

You’d think that maybe it’s due to bad parenting, but 9 out of 10 times it’s not. Most of these kids actually come from honorable households, with caring mothers and hard-working fathers. It’s a shame that they repay their parents’ efforts with language worthy of a truck driver.

Is it peer pressure? Perhaps. But c’mon, they know that what they’re doing is wrong! I’m 100% sure if I threatened to print-screen their facebook page and show it to their mothers they’d crap their pants.

It’s a shame really. I remember when ‘shut up’ and ‘stupid’ were bad words. Now-a-days kids half my age manage to string together the most colorful profanities. Like seriously? You wanna grow up that quickly? I bet your mother still tucks you into bed at night.

Go do homework or something. Stupid kids…

(“Ooooh, teacher!! Nehal said a bad wordddddd!!”)