The Golden Chain

“It’s happening again,” Mango said to Kafka as the prior favorite Apprentice from 2011 onwards, “lines are down, feed is poisoned, alerts are always inbound.”

“Of course it is, Welcome to World War 3” replied Kafka,

“It’s a habit by now…  to declare the obvious as the world lags behind us: what else is new?” growled Viking,

“Well, to start, we started talking with each other as opposed to interacting with online feeds of emotional bot glurge and trauma memes from poisoned ai algorithms.” introjected Loki, appearing from behind a bush casually brushing off his suit.

“Good, what else.” pontificated Bird.

“I am checking on my little groups of operators I know personally,” chirped a friendly voice from above,
    “…especially the ones that prior witnessed his poisoning; and I am distancing myself from all poisoned structures for mental safety while focusing on offline projects and my students.” Offered Mango the Ombudsman from the open window- he roughly crawled through then cleaned his face with his paw self consciously for not having more grace.
   “The problem is,” continued Kafka, “Is the entire situation remains exploitative of us all & others as well as deeply emotionally and spiritually abusive.  With increased surveillance permissions and vastly unequal power dynamics, one can find themselves trapped like rats in a lab cage, micromanaged without respect to their own agency.”
           “…Or like cats in a Tuna drawer,” stated Mango miserably.

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Ruh’s Pir woke up to his alarms in an unknown cherrywood four-poster canopy bed in a room with deeply rich, burgundy satin wallpaper, dark walnut wainscoting, and bed curtains of wine damask.
  And  smelled smoke.
The golden chain around his left wrist had broken in the night, but he was not bothered as he calmly put on a fur coat from the closet. Survival currently exceeds the need for fashion.
   Like sunbeams observed the light alive with floating, dancing particles.  So too, was this golden light he followed.  Through the hallways unseen as strange names were screamed by rank strangers, a right hand turned to glide down the stairs, leaning on the Bannister the last floor to slide to the moss green carpeting.
   Here, the rooms were birch paneled and smelled foul like spoilt food, so the racing figures of contempt around him (whom did not trouble him) complained.
(…past the screaming idiots who could not perceive him as he walked by them entirely as they claimed they could no longer locate anyone at all in the gathering smoke.)
  Behind the bookshelf was a lever, and to pull that lever opened a door to another stairwell, revealing roughly made steps carved into sheetrock and awkwardly placed boards.
Even in this darkness, the pathway of light held.  The screaming upstairs, bombs in the distance, fires through upstairs windows as he followed the light over the French drain, past the furnace, the boiler, and the washer and dryer room, past a room full of ancient Reader’s Digest & National Geographic, and behind the fake wall to a metal chain ladder.
Surprisingly, it goes upwards, so he followed it up into a stone library,  entering behind the janitors’ closet behind some metal partitions that half obscured the entrance… then carefully followed the wall until another white staircase with green carpeting – up two turns – straight down that hallway.  second grand door to the left.
     Everyone who loves him knows he never truly left that office, and those that despise him can never, ever, locate him there.

Ruh hated going to his office, even in dreams, but the way was memorized.
Through the white civilian door, walk past Darius’ Wing, following the green carpeting up two winding flights to the white wall that sheltered the section for “bad writers,” -as Kafka often named the “help center” 

   … Past the worst bathroom on campus on the left.

[The photocopier is too far. There is a stained glass window there now in Alaraf anyway.]

Despite awkward attempts of modernization, The Lefthand Door remains over-large, overdark, slightly ill kept, and antique down to the keyhole.

    Rarely, this door was cracked open.  For about two years Ruh & Kafka alone could open it without a key, then, no one ever at all.
      It became a Place That No Longer Exists.
      Inside, the walls were painted a cool off white that would change warmth entirely the rare times of year the room got sunlight. 

Outside, a road with antique streetlamps, vaguely tree lined with a clear view the security office
    Anyway, that’s everything that can be seen from the window.  Next to the window, white floor to ceiling bookshelves that begin and end with Maulana Rumi surrounding a rather disjointed collection of Nihilism, Tasawwuf, and introductory philosophy.  A man who not so secretly hated his job on some level while being exactly suited to it on others that made the pathway into a constriction.
    The computer, with generous screen and absolute mid cpu was in front of the bookshelf facing the right wall, with yet another set up shelves further up the wall holding an extremely large red-orange vase that looked as if the artist meticulously wished to capture the impression of ping-pong balls, in orange glass, in vase form.
      The left hand wall had a closet with the same antique door, yet smaller, than the office door, a coat hook with a long woolen peacoat, a blue scarf, and inside we surmised, existed a path… except for the rupture.

The Shaking of the Al Shaykh, a door barely containing a monstrosity of tentacles, bird feathers and eyes roared as if poisoned
      The street outside became suddenly engulfed in flames.
    … and Ruh looked at his newly found half brother and sighed, “It’s Happening Again,”

Big Brother replied: “Doroste, We used to it by now.”
     And Ruh slept under his borrowed coat & scarf from the shuddering closet door.

until the apocalypse ended once again…

as “The Pixies” played on the surprisingly excellent pc speakers.

…As per Khorasani tradition….

He sits behind the desk and he speaks to you.  His voice is slow & calming

He explains;

There are few who can translate deep Islamic intelligence to normie-speak.

You are what you read, what you consume, the stories you listen to and the gossip you endure or share.

   listen.

There are stories that inspire greatness, and others become great villains.

      Sometimes, someone who tries their hardest to become a Hero becomes the greatest villain.

     …and the humans who thinks they remain buried in the deepest sins redeemed as saints,”
    
You switch channels; The Professor continues anyway,

    “…I see a scale on my desk, he is small and remains balanced only if nothing touches him. add too much to one side and the arms twist, bending backwards…”

       “…and The birds sing a pretty song where we are from.” introjects another operator dressed like Ska was still in season.

        “listen to me,” says KSIS on video in your inbox, “The Dajjal sends his armies and you are outnumbered, unless you follow in the footsteps of Ahmad.” says the man with the ironically biggest Turban you have ever seen, and yet, you fail to criticize him.

         “I know, Sayyidi,” you replied, he nods in return.

          “They will not stop easily, I need you to listen to your Shaykh, follow that golden chain, do not let go of his hand and remember your Oaths to your Molana Shaykh.  You will die this far along the pathway and you will never be found if you are lost- unless, May Allah find you.  but it is best if you do not get lost”

       “Thank you Sayyidi”- the video ends with a phoenix and the same five note sign off as usual.

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Alex accidentally crashed his vintage bike half-watched his phone in cold curiosity, at the odd algorithms this time in his headset.

   He prayed for the pain to undo the sin of believing bad advice,

   …then limped to the local clinic with dhikr with pain as taubah.

     Once in the waiting room, he cleared his browser, as Big Brother messaged nearly immediately.

     “Kojast‽  CHERĀ.“ was the rough translation.  He knew Alex was at the clinic, even from a thousand miles away-

….then Alex remembered he is in Witness Protection because people tried to murder them both.  People they both loved and trusted, respectively.

      Alex replied like a normal, civilian person:

     “Fell off my bike, I’m in a waiting room.”

      “Sihr?” he texted, his Al Pacino icon seemingly concerned.

       “Na. Stupidity on my part. Just making sure it will heal correctly.”

        “Alhamdulliah. That’s good.  Are you okay?” then… pregnant silence.

     He just sort of held the phone in both hands and thought about the KSIS supervisor’s words right before crashing his bike earlier

       And pointedly hearted his brother’s question then replied, “Alhamdulillah, I am fine.”

Then proceed to unfollow and/or block every single Dajjalic notification still incoming-

No Supervisor would strive to hurt his own downline.

Even a moth leads himself to fire first before burning others.
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  …Then, the overseas notifications start again, over and over, of the same ruddy, high coloured  man and his entire organization for the onslaught.

      Lectures cut, then recut again, the titles were meant to lacerate but found no purchase, you found sudden, blessed distraction from the obliette of Islamic hadith in your own wounded paw.

     You think to yourself,“Words mean nothing & I never once truly held the Devil’s hand.”

     Imagine a metaphor of a swamp full of dead & decaying matter- the only souls in such a place remain like their own surroundings.

      And you know you are safer than houses, as one might say,

    Although you can see the lights of cities through the fog of your screens, the painful speeches & diatribes do not truly reach you.

     You are dead to their world and your words are a eulogy that remains unheard.

      Some are Walking a Pathway and seek to harm no one, and others seek to fight both Change as well as Death their due while offering words like ransom offerings towards a blood debt.

        Discernment continues to elude the wealthy in silence across a fetid Swamp of past indulgences rather than sit through another minute of their ostentatious lectures.

       As the dark carnival of the discarded walk a hero’s journey where the reward is the life already possessed when nothing was learned- and for most, that is hell.

       But, for a Sufi- Even Gehenna is no further from Allah than Jannah when Allah remains closer than the jugular vein, and while you hold the handhold that does not break, after all these years, tears, deceptions, & heartbreaking orchestrated from outside and unwittingly enabled from within.

    The worst thing you ever find is everything you never knew you ever wanted and lose it and also lose everything you actually have, especially faith. 

     But, if you do not lose your faith, and do not offend the Angels and Awilya too badly, Rida & Death of the Self can lead one to better places unknown to the Seeker prior

       There is no pleasant fairtheewell to the Devil, the breaker of hearts, the liar, the one who divides families with jealousy, avarice, and greed.  The king of wealth, fine manners, decorum, small talk, charity dinners where no poor are fed and balls where no one dances.

      The beautiful one who becomes ugly, the closest to God, the Highest and the fallen, the living contradiction.  The perfect failure, the penultimate in human expression, especially in his own self loathing. The envied & the envier; the one who lusts but remains estranged from love.

     And you loved him and let him go.  The Devil wasn’t yours, he belongs only to Allah, he only deceives,  breaks his word, then blames you for the breaking.

       He lectures about moral perfection he does not have with only borrowed charm from the lake of fire where everything hurts and no one feels good about much of anything.

An old motivational speaker to gangsters once said, “There is great armor to be found in self-dependence, self-worth, and recognition of one’s own well-deserved self-confidence. All too often those that seek attraction to themselves choose to armor themselves with tinfoil whose glitter gathers attention. The wise choose instead, to protect their soul by wearing dull and well hammered iron on the inside. A strong soul does not fear wearing their truth openly to the world.

Glitter is for robes, alters, and egos.  is implied.”

You wore a suit anyway.

       “You did your best,” says your Godfather, Brother, Best Friend, Advisor and Pir.         

“I did my best,” you replied. “May God Forgive My Shortcomings.”

         “All hope is never lost; we are Asha’arite.  Only the present moment is even real.”

“Am I violating OPSEC? I intentionally confused the narrative with differing perspective focus near the spooky-part.”

“It does not improve things when you attempt to force me to become your confessional for every incorrect or unkind thing you ever thought about me. The Pir replies, Then stares at you.


“…At least now you understand better why we hid as we did;  Judgement hurts both ways.”

That elder cat, who totally isn’t officially in the Kitty Intelligence Agency, just sighed and slowly blinks.
Just once.
…and seemingly loves you anyway.
With increasingly less plausible deniability.