The Night of the One Who Writes Darkness

The Night of the One Who Writes “Darkness”…

Ah, I am so tired… I want to break the pen and tear the paper to pieces. Ah, it seems I am truly exhausted—utterly so. Exhaustion is nothing compared to this… I am worse than that. I am fed up, worn out, completely at my limit.
After letting out a deep sigh:
My God, how absent-minded I’ve become—to scold poor pen and paper while the computer sits right in front of me. I’ve even forgotten that I’ve been writing on the computer for a long time now. Knowing this, why did I blame the pen and paper? No, they bear not the slightest fault. The guilty one—yes, the guilty one—is the computer itself. Oh, computer, despite being a human invention, it seems you are slowly beginning to surpass humans themselves. Go on, surpass us—let’s see what you’ll do in the end. Either you will be the end of us, or one day you too will grow tired of yourself, just like us humans, and you will blame us for having created you—just as we complain about our fate and accuse the One who created us, that is, God.
Ah, I’ve mixed everything up. I’ve tangled things so badly that I’ve made a complete mess of it. When all I want to do is write, what fault does the computer have? O pen and paper, and o computer, I apologize to each of you again and again. The guilty one—yes, the real guilty one—is me myself. Yes, I am guilty, and thoroughly so. I’ve overloaded my 1.4-kilogram brain to such an extent that not even a million, perhaps not even a billion computers could carry this burden—they would crash and shut down with an error.
Ah well, I’ve rambled far too much. I must write. Isn’t the reason I deprive myself of sleep in the dead of night (the clock on my computer shows 00:25) precisely to write? Then why, instead of writing, am I thinking about other things? Anyway, I’ve started writing. Ya Allah.
Speaking of “Ya Allah,” something just came to mind. Ah, it seems I’m about to lose my focus again. Where was I?… Speaking of “Ya Allah,” I wonder what atheists say instead of “Ya Allah” when they begin writing or starting any task. Perhaps they begin by saying, “Let’s begin.” But… but what? Something else just crossed my mind again. When will I ever write this scribble of mine, I wonder? Years ago, when I got into a car with an atheist, I personally witnessed him sitting behind the wheel saying, “Ya Allah.” No matter how surprised I was then, I still cannot shake off its effect even now. How can this be, or can such a contradiction exist? Could there be anything stranger in this world than hearing the words “Ya Allah” from an atheist? I don’t think so.
Ah well, what do I care what others think or don’t think? I must try to write my own text. Time is passing, deadlines are passing. I have not yet fully achieved what I desire. Knowing that every second of my time is worth gold, what benefit is there for me in thinking about making the impossible possible? After all, hasn’t the world, since the day it was created, continued along its own course—good or bad? Who has ever managed to change it, that I should be able to? Of course, that is not for someone like me. Then why do I allow my time to be wasted? Ya Allah, I have begun.
As I Pull Myself Together and Try to Start Writing:
Ah, this Nazim… you found the time to call now, of all moments.
—Hello!
…
—Yes, I know. How are you?
…
—I’m writing at the moment.
…
—No, don’t say that, brother, it’s all good.
…
—Yes, I’ll be in front of “Aygün City” at five o’clock.
…
—We’ll meet then. Take care.
…
Ah, I’ve been sitting in front of the computer for ten minutes now. I haven’t managed to write a single sentence—no, not even a single word, for God’s sake. My mind is scattered all over the place. And on top of that, this phone call. Was this really the time for it? Damn the troublemaker. Astaghfirullah. Look at what I’m saying about my closest friend. Curse the devil. Yes, curse be upon the devil. It is he who tangles my thoughts and keeps me from writing.
After a brief silence:
Speaking of the devil… I wonder if he can see me right now. Can he observe my movements? Maybe he can. But what about my thoughts—can he read them? Ah, it seems I’m going mad. Bah, what do I care whether the devil sees me or not? One should say, “Hey, kid, sit down and write—what business do you have with the devil?” Or do you have some sort of deal with him? I want to smash my brain to pieces—my nonexistent brain. But to write, I need a brain. After all, writing is my greatest passion. Ugh… I’ve tangled everything up again. One moment I want to destroy my brain, the next I want to write. No, no—let me write. I can destroy my brain later. Besides, what would destroying my brain fix anyway? Time will still flow like water, and the world will continue to spin around itself as always. In the meantime, I’ll destroy myself. As it is, I’m already as good as destroyed. But this is not the place for such debates. Curse the devil. Continue writing.
After another brief silence, despite typing the first word in Word as “I am in darkness”…
Speaking of darkness… I’m actually afraid of the dark—maybe not just a little, but more than normal. Sometimes I wake up screaming from sleep, drenched in sweat and blood, and sometimes I remain paralyzed, caught between sleep and wakefulness. Once, a woman dressed entirely in black, wrapped in a chador, stood by the door all night until morning, staring straight into my eyes. Out of fear, I couldn’t move—let alone make a sound so the others in the house could hear me and save me from this hell. Because if the lights had been turned on, I would most likely have been rid of this filth. What do these night terrors want from me? According to research, people who suffer more stress are the ones most tormented by such hallucinations. And as for someone like me…
A Few Seconds Later:
—I’ve heard that jinn are more active at night, especially between two and four. When I sleep at night, I can’t let my feet stick out from under the blanket—especially when I’m alone at home. Sometimes I even try to sleep with all the lights on in every room, yet I still can’t drive the dark thoughts out of my mind. It feels as if a jinn or a nightmare—whatever you choose to call it—something is about to grab me by the feet at any moment, drag me through the apartment, and in the end pick me up and hurl me down from the ninth floor. If it all ended there, it would actually be easier for me. Because my mind creates scenarios far more terrifying than that—much worse ones.
A jinn, or a nightmare, or perhaps some malicious spirit, drags me by the hair into the bathroom, forces me to stand, and smashes my head into the mirror. To hell with the mirror shattering—my face is covered in blood, and moments later it starts forcing my head down into the bathtub. The tub is filled to the brim with blood. If it drowned me, it would end my life and do me a favor. But no—there is no drowning. It intends to make the scene even more dramatic, to savor it. Then it drags me out of the bathroom and takes me to the toilet, plunging my head into the bowl. It forces me to drink a large amount of the filthy water, slamming my head against the wall several times. The blood splattered across the walls resembles grotesque scenes from horror films. It is as if the word “death” has been written on the walls in blood.
The noise could have been heard by the neighbors, but by some cruel twist of fate, the closest neighbors had left their apartment a few days earlier—as if they had known what was going to happen. But why hadn’t they told me? Damn you traitors. For a brief moment, I felt ashamed of blaming the neighbors unfairly, realizing that my ability to think hadn’t completely vanished. How could they have known what would happen, and even if they had, what could they have done? Who could find the strength within themselves to fight such a demon? Of course—no one.
Anyway, where was I? Perhaps I shouldn’t continue… or perhaps I should. I swear, I’m caught between two fires. After all, I have to write. Why have these dark thoughts seized me again? No—despite everything, I will continue.
Yes, this is where I had left off. After forcing me to drink a great deal of that filthy water and smashing my head against the wall several times, it dragged me into the kitchen and held my head close to the burning gas flame. My skin was melting, dripping and spreading into the air. Yet I was doomed to endure all this torment and witness everything until my very last breath—because Azrael, the angel of death as we call him, had not yet arrived. It seemed he too enjoyed watching this spectacle—despite calling himself an angel. And why should I even blame him? After all, isn’t his very name “the angel of death”? There would be Azrael as a witness to this scene.
No—wait, astaghfirullah—and God as well. Oh God, how could You inflict this calamity upon me? Offfff… it seems I’m losing my faith. Slowly turning into an apostate. God, forgive me! Forgive me, O God! Forgive me so that I may forgive You. Were these sufferings I endure not written into my fate by You? Did You not create the jinn, the devils, the spirits, the nightmares? More than Your creations, I am hurt by You Yourself, O God. Offf… look at the things I’m saying, the things I’m thinking, God. No servant is without sin. God, forgive me! Forgive me, O God!
These lines from a poem I wrote years ago now feel eerily fitting:
What is this darkness, what is this gloom?
Is there an end to this terror, O Lord?
You gave the soul, entrusted it to Yourself,
Protect it from darkness, O Lord!
Ah, while writing about darkness, how did these half-mad, half-truthful thoughts force their way into my mind? Perhaps I shouldn’t write about this at all. Wouldn’t another, more pleasant topic be better? No. Wasn’t I longing to write about the very things I fear the most? This could be a good subject. Then I must not change the topic—not at all.
The computer’s battery is about to die. Three percent left. I wonder where I put the adapter. Ah, all this time I’ve been thinking about everything, conquering the universe with my imagination—yet unaware that I’m blind enough not to see the adapter right in front of my eyes.
A short while after plugging the adapter into the outlet, a message arrives on Facebook:
—“Brother, you’re still not asleep? It’s almost four o’clock.”
—Someone should tell this guy, you heartless creature, why aren’t you asleep then?
And when I say “someone should tell him,” why shouldn’t I write it myself…
He sends another message, asking the same question. Let’s not forget that whether he writes or not, his Facebook page is always “online.”
—Anyway, once again, a troublemaker…
After thinking for a bit:
It’s been more than four hours, and I’ve written just one word—“I am in darkness.” At this rate, it seems I won’t be able to write anything at all. Before morning breaks, they’ll ask, “So, did you manage to write something?” If I say “Yes,” they won’t read it anyway. If I say “No,” then they’ll ask, “Then why did you sit like a madman from night till morning? You could’ve at least done something else.” How could they possibly know how complex the act of writing is? How could they know that writing a single sentence can take an entire night, and that writing a novel may be harder than living a whole lifetime? They won’t know. And what’s the point of trying to prove something they neither know nor understand?
I have longed so much to live in Bohemia¹… to live in a place inhabited by poets, painters—artists in general. If even they wouldn’t understand you, then who would? Perhaps there are people around me who would understand, but discovering those people might not even be possible in a lifetime. That is why my Bohemian dreams remain only dreams. What a pity…
Yet the hours keep passing. Because of these tangled thoughts, nothing has been written other than the words “I am in darkness.” But if we consider that even the single phrase “I am in darkness” carries a great meaning on its own, wouldn’t it be unfair to say that I’ve written nothing at all? In truth, it wouldn’t. But I must explain to the reader which darkness I am talking about—I must write at least one page of something. Otherwise, the phrase “I am in darkness” will remain dark not only to the readers, but even to myself. To pierce this darkness, even a short story would suffice. Are you aware that small things often arise from great suffering?
After an hour spent lost in thought, the dawn call to prayer can be heard outside. And then:
—Yes, God is great. Greater than we can possibly comprehend. So why shouldn’t I write the second sentence as “God is great”? Is there a more beautiful phrase than that? Then I must definitely write it. Look—now there are two sentences:
“I am in darkness. God is great.”
But how should the next sentence be written? Ah, how foolish I am. Foolish to the extreme. Here comes the next—third sentence:
“I take refuge in God’s greatness from the darkness.”
And thus, as the sun was rising, a six-page short story titled “Those Who Take Refuge in God from the Darkness” was completed.

Habil Yashar