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.