Eye of Saffiyah |✔️

4

Reaching far into my mind, I try to find a plane of balance. A place where I can breathe in sync with the rhythm of my heartbeat and not spare a second thought to anything else. Soon, I find that place. Here I am fully rooted to the ground. Here I need not worry about floating away. Here, I am safe. 

At some point in time I force myself to open my eyes. Creamy browns and faded blues fill my vision. The cozy interior makes it tempting to stay. Four tan walls enclose the small prayer room. A patterned rug serves as the floor; the blues, greens and golds forming a tessellation of various symbols. Behind me is a series of arched windows. And facing me is a low table, where a propped-up mosaic is glimmering in the soft candlelight.

A "prayer" room is a little deceiving, I think. Most claim it is a place to practice their faith. Where on a regular basis, one pays his respects to whatever deities they believe are watching over them. But praying does nothing to reinforce one's beliefs, nor does it ensure the gods would hear your sufferings. I learned that a long time ago. 

A prayer room serves as a quiet space, where you are entitled to your own privacy and thoughts. Where time and space themselves have slowed down at your command. Where even if the world is ending, no one would feel they have the right to intrude in your activities. 

Here, peace can be made with your inner demons without them escaping your control. Here, even the burning fires of hatred can be quenched within moments, without the help of anyone else--not even the gods. 

Especially the gods.

I take my time walking down the grand hall. Pillar after pillar passes by on either side of me. The torchlight emits a steady glow to the space, though the lighting remains somewhat dim. Have this been any other place, the melancholy gloom would have driven me away. But more often than not I spend my time here, reflecting on the past.

I pause at one of the giant tapestries, which depicts a stack of books along with cursive script floating off the fluttering pages of an open book. This one is more recent; the threads still hold their vibrancy. Others have lost their colour and become permanently stationary pictures. I try to keep these stories alive, but there is only so much I can do before they are forgotten. Forgetting the past has become a norm, so it seems. I am determined not to resign my pupils' legacies to the same fate.

I lightly run my fingers across the tapestry. The threads shimmer before melting into moving blurs of colour. Soon it focuses into a memory I have not thought about for a while—the last time I read a book outloud.

I smile as I continue to read. The older ones act out the story to the youngsters, and although there's no sound, the air ripples with laughter. I say something to them, and this makes them all laugh harder. Their faces redden with joy. I shake my head as I try to find where I left off. We will never finish the book like this, I think. A shame—even I want to know what happens! But that's all right. Sometimes stories are not meant to be finished. Sometimes, stories can be enjoyed without knowing where it will take us in the end.

I open my eyes and realize my nose is a horsehair's distance from the tapestry. I back away. It has become increasingly difficult to tell the past from present, memories from actuality. Tearing my gaze from the once-again passive memory, I resume my walking at a slower pace. 

I miss them, I think. The emptiness gnaws at my insides. I miss the past, back when we have not left each other. And now...

I wince and grab my side. It feels as though it is on fire. I hurriedly grab the Eye from my pocket and sure enough, the stone has heated up. But it cools down just as quickly.