Blasphemy stood up from his chair. As he rose, his leg struck the edge of the table, scattering the papers of the report everywhere. The vibration was so strong that it knocked over his cup of coffee.
He began walking in circles — just like his thoughts. What made him hesitate wasn't what to do...
but that he could only think in answers and had no questions...
That terrified him — taking the first step knowing where it led.
It was like two lovers deciding to leave each other — both knowing that ending this painful relationship was the right thing, yet neither able to say the words.
And I'm not talking about two strangers bound by love — no.
I'm talking about when a human decides to break up with his own personality, with his own ideas.
For humans, liberation comes when they decorate their souls with ideas, personalities, perspectives…
But to do the opposite — to strip all of that away — you must tear out your own roots.
And when you do, darkness swallows you, leaving only one question:
What was my purpose?
Because if I rid myself of the problem, that would mean I lived for nothing.
Blasphemy's thoughts were starving — and no matter how much he fed them, they were never full.
He escaped the whirlpool of his mind when he heard the sound of liquid dripping onto the floor. That's when he noticed the coffee, soaking through all the papers.
He started laughing — louder and louder — until he began to choke and couldn't breathe.
He gasped for air and muttered between breaths:
"I am no dam… I'm like this cup of coffee. I contain all of their anger. The right thing would've been to let it spill out. But I dropped the cup by mistake…
Who dropped me?
You witch…
Who's flame is still flickering....
I didn't know it already burned me.... "
Besides all my efforts, all of them were just...
That they saw at the trial black boxes hanging around....
They didn't even recognize that they were speakers, they will continue to live in 1806 till when..... If I couldn't wake them up, who would... And the door is slightly open just missed with reality what would happen..... If it were completely cracked..... What will happen.....
i can't close the door...she is right no matter what.... I can't keep shielding the one who opened it, and expect everyone else to close it..... I need to leave.....
..... No..... No... That won't change a thing.... I need to be humiliated....if they saw an evil goes down, then they will think the devil fight is possible....
...Sorry everyone.....
...
...
..
It was the start of a beautiful morning.
The spring breeze carried the scent of trees down the path leading to the local markets.
From the moment you stepped in, everything seemed to tangle together — the smells, the voices, the noise, the movement.
Sometimes you could recognize them; sometimes you couldn't.
You had only one thing in mind — to buy some supplies — yet often you'd drift away, drawn by something that caught your eye.
This place... it's the only thing that ever feels like home
Take a breath with me… It's refreshing — not to mention the pollution and the air itself.
Here, in what the locals call the shopping center, the shops display their goods both inside and out.
At the entrance, fruits and vegetables fill the stands. You can see people picking up plastic bags, asking for prices, and—if the price suits them—starting to fill the bags until they've had enough. Then they move to the scale, weigh what they've chosen, hand over the money, and take the bag.
Sometimes you'll notice pre-packed bags offered for sale, cheaper than buying a single kilo.
And then, there's this older woman—barely able to walk, her back bent with age—asking for the price of something, her hand trembling as she points toward the ground.
If you look closer, you'll see what she was pointing at: a basket filled with fruit that looks dreadful, long past fresh, the kind that shouldn't be for human consumption.
You don't know what to feel—disgust at her, at the one who told her it costs the same as the fresh ones, or at yourself for just standing there.
Either way, she leaves… without buying anything.
Moving forward from the freshness corner...
Next comes the spice section. You can see everything clearly — all bottled up, stacked in large plastic containers that look like water gallons. Then you meet the perfumer. You ask if he has what you need, and he weighs it for you.
And as always, before you leave, you ask yourself — where did that smell of dust come from?
All along the road, on your left and right, you can see life unfolding. The space between both sides isn't wide — just enough for one horse or a donkey to pass, forward or back.
After that comes the poultry shops.
The chickens are kept inside stands that look like cages — almost like prisons — but the bars are spaced wide enough to let air through, though not wide enough for the chickens to escape. It makes you wonder, these five-tiered cage stands, how they allow enough space for breathing.
The seller weighs the chicken. If the price and weight seem fair to you, he takes out a large knife, cuts its neck, and throws it into a plastic barrel. You can hear the sound from inside — the struggle, the fight against the draining of its soul — the barrel shaking for a minute before silence falls.
The worker then takes the chicken out, dips it in hot water, and tosses it into a machine that removes the feathers. The final step is cleaning the inside, and he'll ask if you want it whole or cut — four or eight pieces.
That's how it is if you want a fresh chicken.
Before leaving this part of the market — or shopping area — you notice on both sides, about four shops to the left and four to the right, a total of eight selling the same thing. In front of each one, stands display piles of chicken breasts, thighs, and drumsticks stacked on top of each other. If you want chicken fillet — whether from the breast or thigh — they have it inside.
What keeps us wondering is the place itself — where the chickens wait to be slaughtered. Each cage has a small door-like window, and strangely, these doors are always open. The chickens never leave. Sometimes, you see one step outside, take a short walk, and calmly return to what seems to be its cage.
This market opens only two days a week — Monday and Thursday.
People come to buy their essentials — meat and poultry on Monday, fish on Thursday.
But that was back when the village's financial situation was better. Now, everything feels smaller — fewer people, fewer goods. People only buy what they truly need.
There are homes that haven't eaten chicken or meat in years. For them, it's a dream. They go to the chicken shops to ask for leftover legs or skin — whatever can be spared. Or they visit the butcher, hoping for bones with a little meat still clinging to them — just to remember what meat once tasted like.
It doesn't matter if you see it on Monday—
the butcher, and how he hangs the parts of the cow on something that looks like a hook.
The hook drops from a chain, which hangs from three wooden poles joined together—
each one pressed firmly into the ground with wedges, tilted just enough so they meet at a single point above.
From that point, the chain dangles, ending in a ring where the butcher connects the hook that carries the meat.
The three pieces of wood are also bound together.
Or on Thursday, when this huge space the butchers use transforms into a sea of fish and ice spread all over the place… You can find four kinds of tilapia—small, smaller, large, and extra large—if we're speaking generally.
There's everything the sea could offer: lobster, shrimp, squid, and all kinds of fish whose names we don't even know—the ones with the big mouths, the sword-shaped noses, the red-colored scales… and many more.
Most of these fish are displayed like treasures for the poor to look at, though in the end, they always choose the cheapest ones. They buy one for one, or two for two. They don't buy four fish to share among them—one per person is more than enough.
After this section comes the restaurants, the gift shops, the clothing stalls, the repair places… and at the very end of this market stands a café. But calling it a café would be too generous, so let's call it a caoor—something between café and poor. It sounds bad enough to fit....
Enough with the supplies—now let's talk about the product. The people who enter to purchase.
They move forward and backward without pattern or purpose. Don't even try to follow them—there's no logic, just chaos.
Arguments over prices echo from every corner: someone swearing he found it cheaper elsewhere, another still deciding what to buy.
A woman drags her husband through the crowd; his face screams impatience.
From the side, you see people constantly coming and going, coming and going—some dragging what looks like a shopping cart bag, others carrying plastic ones that dig deep red marks into their hands.
Most of them stop to rest, placing their bags on the ground, their bodies heavy with fatigue.
From a distance, their faces might seem lively—shining, full of life. But look closer.
You'll see the space that exists between their eyes and their thoughts, between their mouths and their minds.
And you'll realize—they're all wearing masks.
Not masks to hide lies or deceit.
But the mask of routine.
Humans hide in their past—not always in memories, but in experiences.
They ask the same questions, give the same answers, laugh at the same jokes, at the same moments, in the same ways.
It's exhausting to keep up the act—doing the same thing, day after day.
But what's more exhausting is choking on your own words, or feeling awkward and silent when you speak.
So people stick to the familiar—to the things no one judged before.
They'd rather repeat what's safe than risk something new.
It's like watching the greatest movie of all time over and over again, afraid that the sequel might ruin the magic.
So they live in the past, think about the future, and ignore the present.
Blasphemy stood atop one of the buildings, watching the crowd below, lost in these thoughts—wondering how to change their perspective.
Then, he descended from his quiet height and began walking among them, step by step, until he reached the end of the street—the Caoor...(café.... Poor)
While walking, Blasphemy thought, "Are humans cursed to live this way their whole lives? Is it really so hard to overcome this feeling — this drowning panic just to reach the surface… this feeling?"
Blasphemy looked at the passersby. Your senses become alert; you can hear your heart pounding, your breath grows heavier, and goosebumps spread across your skin. Time itself feels like it's slowing down, yet somehow, you move faster. Heightened senses… to wrap it up — everything becomes louder.
Someone bumped into him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked to his left and saw the caoor — three people sitting together around a small table, just big enough for their drinks.
And then he saw someone familiar.
The kindest person in the village.
Blasphemy remembered helping this kid years ago. He remembered how the boy once stepped on an ant by mistake and cried for hours.
He used to think that kid had the kindness of an angel. He remembered all the names people called him — the Angel, the Messenger of Heaven, the Righteous of Hell — titles that showed how pure his heart once was.
Every moment passes, I find you were right, Sarah, Blasphemy thought. The village might've been better if I were gone… at least they had you.
Wait—
I was wrong.
That kid isn't an angel.
The village doesn't stand a chance.
That kid… what happened to you?
That innocent smile — it's gone.
That kid…
The devil himself is his bitch.