It is a new page turned, a new hour reversed. The survival of the fittest waits for no one, simply because instinct tells us that running for your life depends on your readiness either to kneel down or stay erect regardless of the straw in the left eye. Charles Darwin lingers on just to inculcate in us that theory is the prettiest and the purest figurine of Praxis, thus, as long as the theory holds out against the contingencies of beliefs and creeds, scientific truths will triumph over the rigid films of the forebears' inheritance in addition to the presumptuous futurists. In order that the pragmatism of the survival of the fittest sustains the impracticality of dilution, the mindset ought to stride across the other.
Nature is not universe, the predator is not the kill, Brahim is not Afellan, Mars is not earth, sand is not dust, submission is not subordination, humanity is not animality, departure is not stay, Red Mercury is not Silybum Marianum, Rabinas is not Tin Hinan, the camel is not the fox, the chest is not the lock, the watch is not the time, offense is not defense, gravity is not gravitation, gene manipulation is not the immune system, praise is not menace, the summit is not the foot, the secret is not glass, death is not life, poison is not antidote…
Whosoever provides himself with the will of blocking the wall of poisoning, all his organism, therefore, can work for him for the sake of raising the flag of resilience on top of every mast of a struggle. At first, Afellan managed to dodge the ferocious jumps of the fox, he eluded the mercurial lethal bites. Apparently, the fox targeted Afellan more than the camel, he didn't know that Afellan's body, never straggled, was brimming with Silybum Marianum.
Worst still, knowingly or unknowingly, every bite the fox gave exhausted him, weakened him, and drained him to near death as Red Mercury was circulating in his blood to support him, to enliven him, to betray him in the majority of the time. As Afellan observed the state of frailty and delicacy the fox was reduced to owing to the vehement anti-poison, he tried then to just confine himself to protecting himself as well as his camel as much as possible without making any intentional harm to the fox because he remained a helpless victim at the mercy of Rabinas the arbitrary, the totalitarian and the oppressive.
As much the fox fallaciously believed or was made to voluntarily believe that Red Mercury could back up his immune system against all anomalies as he wreaked havoc in his cells, genes and body. It is easy to cast illusions, to camouflage, to conceal the true mind at the expense of a false one. Down with power that subjugates the thinking cells. The same thing applies to humans where instinct became the catalyst for degrading satisfaction and depredating ego.
Unfortunately for Rabinas, his slave fox has passed away, he destroyed himself by draining all the Red Mercury. He died alone, even his master never assisted him at least via injecting in him more R.M. as long as his organism functioned well through that fluid metal. Overall, it was not a clinical death in itself which was seen ethically or sentimentally, it is notably the survival of the strong, the revival of the sturdy, who come out intact to the detriment of the other. DOWN WITH THE OTHER…!!
Death is a treacherous game, dangerous one, which humans failed to make. What remains then ? only animals could endure the test of disappearing, because their teeth and claws don't compliment the recent wounds, don't negotiate a lost adversary. Usually the weak faces death more frequently than the strong, all wonder why especially when we hear that gods don't stand by the weak lest they would weaken them, why not undermine them little by little.
Death of the fox is an implementation of justice on earth, since Afellan didn't look at him for a hunt in search of a lush fur or for a title of courage. Poor are those who submit unquestionably to the will of silence, to the will of OUI OUI. Heavens, by the end of the day is not a jail in which the defunct are locked, it is preferably a rectangular garden where the late spirit, whether animal or human, can go for a ramble, short yet aimless. Heavens is a reversed womb that turned into a tomb, the fox spirit concerns me not as much as Red Mercury, that doesn't redeem the state that the physical sky is random and bareless.
Like Robert Graves in his poem 'the Dead Fox Hunter' the sand fox died truthfully for a good cause, fought for it whether worthwhile or otherwise. The distance between Earth and Heavens can not reflect any reserve nor a rigidity, because Heavens doesn't acknowledge the unjustifiable nuances of taste or the logic of hide and hunt. Emotional is the death of the fox whereas the survival of Afellan is rational and worthy.
For those who live uprightly and die true
Heaven has no bars or locks,
And serves all taste...or what's for him to do
Up there, but hunt the fox?
Angelic choirs? No, Justice must provide
For one who rose straight and in hunting died.
So if Heaven had no Hunt before he came,
Why, it must find one now:
If any shirk and doubt they know the game,
There's one to teach them how:
And the whole host of Seraphim complete
Must jog in scarlet to his opening Meet.
When a locust kept hovering around the fox's cadaver, it meant that his body was purified, got rid of all the poison, R.M. was sorted out. Death is catharsis, Undeath is impurity…Death has never enjoyed the flush of veins, nonetheless eternity has managed to accrue to the forbidden vistas of purgation as well as those of breath posthumousness.
The brown locust of the desert is clever enough to reward herself with much protein and fat, she is not experienced enough to extricate herself from being an eyewitness. The fox died singly, committed a mistake by trying to chemically eradicate Afellan, he died lonely as a mere casualty of a conspiracy webbed from above. One third of the errors made in both the animal and human kingdoms have been approved to be conducive to traitorous sexual intercourse. As such has stirred much of the scandalous sequels that secrecy of dealings can do without.
However long, knotty and mysterious the itinerary is, Afellan's reach as it hardens as its features get broader and more robust. Atakor, that elusive summit, sometimes holds the truth of the chest, sometimes slams the door to the inquisitive curiosity, encompasses every instant of Fatima's dribbling, and straddles the Secret of the Hoggar. The chest could not be counted as the corollary of the secret nor is it the wood secretion, but correctly it is the carrier of loyalty, the bearer of divulgation and discretion. None of these could qualify for an upper rung without taking into account the vicariousness of the mission.
Everything can slip into a state of oblivion and wear except distance, for distance supports those who pursue the map, those who cling to the nude points on the rocks. My grandmum told me once that whoever picked up distractors from the road they would end up arched in the back, because that space would embrace unconditionally all the generosity of the world regardless of the passers-by. Since not all passers-by are included in the act of gleaning some compassion from the age bargainers.
Afellan carried on his path, the sandstorm started to rise, to disturb the air as less as the erosion to the nude rocks did. His blue-dyed scarf began to leave a space between the cloth and the cheek, why because the sandstorm got along well with the nakedness of the desert, the apprehensive expansion of departure. Afellan owed everything to his scathing dream that sovereignty was not something unreachable. As the locust that reached dead bodies, it meant that the more the storm spiraled the more the Sahara was ruddy and healthy.
The sky was taking on a grayish tint; it was not strangers to the sandstorm the desert was affiliated with. Everything was rummaging through bags of tints to change the dark complexion of the ground features. It was natural for us to hold on to the original colour of the world, it was not the world that had ordered us to respect every single shade the dust showed. The end of the dust equaled the death of the desert; it would be a cosmetic end to the lizard that lost its den because it mistook it for a burrow…
Whoever lived in the desert, it was incumbent upon them to keep peace with all the inhabitants, whether sociable or aloof. It didn't matter much to irrigate the lote tree at dawn, since thirst became the last message proclaimed addressed to those who intended to avoid hydrating the roots. Similarly, thirsty roots would potentially assure agnostic stems, simply those who believed in water, automatically believed in god. God is water….water is not god by force….!!
That conflict between sandstorm and water dated back to many centuries since the first eruption of the volcano in Tamanrasset desert. As the legend went, the volcano which was turned into Atakor had sucked all the pure water in order to clean itself from carbon dioxide and methane. How selfish that volcano was !! as it drained all the water, it discharged the magma. The volcano didn't purify itself but rather it exploited the wealth of the desert's inhabitants.
Stormy was the day Afellan tackled, in spite of the thirst he suffered all day long. Four days spent on the road, the resolve was not that resolve whose laces went undone easily. Man without a woman could undermine that will and that resolve. There was a strong desire upon Afellan to accompany a woman, a woman not like all the rest of women. The need to keep company with a woman might account for the human instinct to go to bed with a girl not deflowered yet, that instinct could mislead us by hypnotizing our enjoying the voluptuous side of womanhood.
Bordering on the second degree of voyeurism brought about a sense within Afellan stronger than intuition, yet weaker than tingling. The desert could not be a casual arousal, for we were born with the seed whose germination and blossoming was held in pledge. By the belief that our nudity was half what the desert and the woman might together hold in store. So, arousal and nudity have stripped of voyeurism the pleasure of blinking the eyes before squeezed darkness and insinuating growth. The first channels the interior excitation into an exterior recognition, whereas the second transforms the psychic culmination into a socio-cultural sublimation.
It was evident from the very beginning that Afellan's initial thoughts of migrating to Algiers had been acute as ablaze as his youth. Yet, the dream upon him was even torrential and sweeping to turn from horizontal departure to perpendicular departure. To his passion and dismay, moving and removing are quasi identical in spelling, yet the discrepancies between them are numerous: moving denotes daring, distancing, transformation, as it connotes renewal, conquest and influence. Removing, on the other contrary, denotes in its turn disappearance, effort and decisiveness, as it connotes arrival, neutralization and extremism.
Departure into society differed vastly from that departure into the desert, into the space, into the fruitful void, into the delicious Secret, into a new order, into Mars, into Tin Hinan. Unjust was history that sided with the cragged, however, left out the even. If ever there was a community, that didn't reflect the state that togetherness was saved, every close-knit community whose fabric disguised the pores strewn over its surface.
The desert was a different community, it was not a society with rules acted out, with beauty maimed twice. By reason of the kinetic energy which pulled out the flora more than the fauna, the mind more than the heart. Dead community is the mind, living community is the heart. Don't impel me to switch the former with the latter merely he preferred to be reigned by blood rather than by cells. Blood thinks… cells react…!!
Those who were cold-blooded could adapt to the heat of the desert but not too long as many hormones didn't respond accessibly to the variability of the surroundings. Heat in autumn was such a challenge to bear, what aggravated the matter even more was the considerable weight to hold out, that exit which was on the offchance. Cold-bloodedness and hot-bloodedness have pushed back the boundaries of blood temperature and adaptability to encompass the zeitgeist or the spirit of the age for certain category of people. Unlike hot-blooded people, cold-blooded people usually see the world from a pragmatic and practical point of view, meaning that brain cells work better when body temperature drops below 37 C. European people, illustratively, are successful and prosperous not only because they are pragmatic and rational but because they are cold-blooded. Worst of all, the hot-blooded testify to their fluctuation, emotionality, theoreticality on account of the boiling milieu brain cells are confined to. African and Latin American peoples, for instance, are great sufferers, disadvantaged and lost, so, the more we go hot-blooded the more we slam the gate of flourish from within.
Afellan kept along the journey, he tried to forget all the setbacks in terms of the past shackles he had been through. Equanimity returned once again to his psyche, it was high time to turn his expedition to a moving cause of meditation. Offering oneself the opportunity to meditate the absolute, the extensive corners of prophecy turned out to thrive in a world of liberation and release.
From time to time you could expect anything that might fall below your knees, everything is expectable and reachable by having an insight into tomorrow. You could learn to gather tips which were along your way, but you couldn't single out the dream as soon as you have faith in superstition, because your aspirations potentially soared to the third rung of dread and self-doubt.