𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒓 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒊: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆

 

𝑵𝒐𝒐𝒓, ... 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒖𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏.

Imagine a candle flickering in the dark, the wax melting into the shape of time itself. Every drop that falls cannot be undone, nor should it be mourned—it is simply the way of things. Such is Amor Fati, the embrace of fate in all its forms, its bitter winters and honeyed springs alike.

Nietzsche whispers to us:
"My formula for human greatness is Amor Fati: that one wants nothing to be different, not forward, not backward, not in all eternity. Not merely to bear what is necessary, still less conceal it—but love it."

Do we dare, Noor?
Do we dare love the bruises as much as the blessings?
To not only accept our fate but to dance with it, to wrap our arms around it like an old lover returning home?

Noor, tell me—what is the part of your fate that you struggle to love? The part that still feels like a wound rather than a gift. If I were to trace my fingers over that wound, would I find sorrow still clinging to it? Or has it begun to heal? Then let us whisper to it together—"You belong. You are part of the whole. I love you, as I love all that has shaped me."

Noor, as you walk through today, let every moment be kissed by acceptance. If the sky is gray, let it be gray. If your heart aches, let it ache. But above all, whisper: This too, I love.

And I, Noor—
I will always love you,
as you love fate itself.

Yours,

Jeremiah. 

Visiting Museum Serat Holistik Kehidupan Susilawati Susmono (Shadows Among Holistic Threads:A Rain-Soaked Pilgrimage into Sufi Art)

The sky was wrapped in a somber shroud of gray that morning, as though the heavens themselves conspired to cast a contemplative pall over our scholarly quest. My students and I, clutching our notebooks—descended upon the Museum of Holistic Threads, Susilawati Susmono in Yogyakarta with hearts alight despite the drizzle. The steady patter of rain on the cobblestones sounded like a subdued echo of an ancient invocation, heightening the aura of learned mystery that awaited us inside.

Whispers of a Sufi Soul

The museum’s founder, Nyi. Hj. R.Ngt Susilawati Susmono, was no mere artist; she was a Sufi visionary whose works—paintings, tapestries, manuscripts, and even interpretative dances—spoke of a realm where body, mind, and spirit converge. The moment I stepped through the threshold, I was enveloped by the faint scent of books and paintings. 

My eyes flitted across the thousands of works (more than 8000 thousand)—some lyrical in form, others dense with paintings. Each piece seemed alive, murmuring subtle truths about the ephemeral nature of existence. At times, I could almost feel the presence of the artist herself, a female Sufi whose quiet intensity reverberated in every brushstroke and carefully chosen word.

Shadows and Luminescence
Light was scarce that rainy day, but what little seeped in from the high windows struck the surfaces of glass artifacts and gilded frames. Flecks of gold leaf reflected onto the museum walls, creating dancing apparitions that felt like fleeting spirits, coaxing me deeper into reverie. The hush of the halls—punctuated by soft footfalls of my fellow students—made every breath, every heartbeat, an act of sacred attention.

A Library of Living Texts

In one alcove, there lay shelves groaning under the weight of serat Al-Qur’an, manuscripts, and rare books. A sense of wonder stirred within me at the sheer magnitude of her literary output. It wasn’t merely a collection of texts, but a testament to a life devoted to reflection, devotion, and the pursuit of the “True Self” that the museum’s vision so fervently espouses.

As I traced a finger along the spine of a faded volume, I felt a curious mixture of awe and insignificance. Here was a woman who channeled her spirituality into tangible forms: 8000 passages meticulously rewritten, 285 manuscripts, and countless other expressions of devotion. The hush in that room had the quality of a hushed library at dusk—pregnant with untold stories, invites to secret knowledge.

Reflections in the Gloom

The gloom outside made the interior glow with an otherworldly warmth. I could almost hear the echo of cosmic truth, resonating with the Sufi poems and the swirling motifs on the batiks displayed around us.

Standing before a particularly enigmatic painting, I was struck by an inexplicable pang in my chest. It felt as though the work was staring back into me, daring me to confront my own spiritual yearnings. In that suspended moment, I wondered if I was glimpsing the edges of my own soul, mirrored back by the bold strokes of a female mystic I had never met.

Meditations on Existence

In keeping with its mission, the Museum of Holistic Threads (Museum Serat Holistik Kehidupan Susilawati Susmono) offers more than mere aesthetic admiration. It beckons visitors to reflect on the grand puzzle of human purpose—why we are here, and how we might trace the lineage of our existence back to the Divine. Even as thunderclouds raged overhead, the museum’s calm spaces radiated a sense of timelessness, as if every artwork were a portal nudging us to rediscover the vow we once made with eternity.

Epilogue Under Gray Skies

When we finally stepped back outside, the sky was still draped in melancholic clouds, but the rain had eased to a gentle mist. My heart felt full—laden not with a dreary weight but with the luminous echoes of the day’s revelations. The air smelled of wet earth and distant incense, as though nature itself conspired to remind us of the cyclical dance between creation and dissolution.

Clutching my damp notebook to my chest, I left with more than observations—I carried a renewed sense of reverence for the invisible. In the quiet hush of a museum devoted to one woman’s unflagging devotion, I experienced an intimate conversation with my own soul, one that will linger long after the clouds disperse, and the sun rises anew. 

Museum Serat Holistik Kehidupan Susilawati Susmono

The Museum Serat Holistik Kehidupan Susilawati Susmono (MSHK-SS) is located in Yogyakarta and was founded by Nyi. Hj. R.Ngt Susilawati Susmono. This museum presents a broad array of artworks—paintings, crafts, dance, music, and serat (manuscripts)—offering a holistic view of human life as a tribute to the nation.

Its collection comprises more than 8,000 works created by Susilawati Susmono between 1999 and 2024. These include 100 books, 588 literary works, 43 songs, 15 dances, 2,479 Quranic serat, 285 serat manuscripts, 130 paintings, and various crafts such as vases, glass teapots, and batik motif designs. The museum was officially inaugurated on October 24, 2020, by the Governor of the Special Region of Yogyakarta, represented by the Acting Head of the Provincial Department of Culture.

The museum’s vision is to guide individuals toward discovering their “True Self”, with a mission to live life as true individuals, true leaders, and true teachers. Located at Jl. Marto Suharjo No. 123, RT.01/RW.27, Bantarjo, Donoharjo, Ngaglik, Sleman, Yogyakarta 55581, it is open daily from 9 AM to 3 PM, closed on Mondays. Admission is IDR 10,000 for students, IDR 20,000 for the general public, and IDR 40,000 for foreign tourists.

Every three months, the museum publishes the Jurnal Holistik Kehidupan (Holistic Life Journal) featuring research articles and studies related to museum activities. A visit to this museum offers self-reflection on humanity’s role in the world, showcased through its displayed artworks that remind visitors of the grandeur of the Creator.

MSHK-SS operates under ISAQ Center & Yayasan Riyadhatul Ihsan and has been a member of Barahmus (the Yogyakarta Museum Consultative Body) as its 41st member for the past two years. The works exhibited convey profound messages and guidance for younger generations, presented by ISAQ Talents during various cultural and artistic events.

The museum also serves as a venue for study or research for anyone looking to know themselves better, in line with Government Regulation No. 66 of 2015 on Museums, as stated in Article 2, which defines the museum’s role in research, education, and recreation.

A visit to the Museum Serat Holistik Kehidupan Susilawati Susmono offers a profound experience, inviting guests to contemplate the meaning of life and humanity’s place in the world. Through an array of art rich in spiritual and cultural values, the museum provides a unique fusion of art, spirituality, and self-reflection. More than simply displaying artwork, it delivers an immersive journey to ponder the meaning of life, the human relationship with the Creator, and the exploration of one’s inner self.

Why Is This Museum Special?

1. Holistic Approach: Visitors are encouraged to view human life as an integrated whole—through visual arts like paintings and crafts, but also via literature, music, dance, and serat manuscripts. This approach embodies the idea that art and life are inseparable.
2. Spiritual Message: Each piece carries a spiritual dimension and an invitation to self-examination. The collection contains elements designed to help visitors find their “True Self”—the human essence aware of its duties in the world.
3. Cultural and Religious Heritage: Featuring Quranic serat, manuscripts, and batik motifs, the museum also acts as a guardian of Indonesia’s cultural and religious heritage.
4. Educational and Reflective Vision: Not only does the museum educate visitors about art, but it also encourages them to contemplate their roles and responsibilities as human beings.

This museum combines the functions of an art gallery, a spiritual space, and an educational center. Compared to conventional museums, Museum Serat Holistik Kehidupan more closely resembles a meditative journey presented in visual and cultural forms. Each item in the collection serves as a window connecting visitors to deeper dimensions of life. []

The Gnostic Light

The library was silent, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards and the rustle of candlelight against the stone walls. Noor sat by the window; her silhouette framed by the pale glow of the moon. Books lay scattered across the table—texts on Gnosticism, forbidden cosmologies, and fragmented myths of the Archons. Opposite her, Jeremiah leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped, his dark eyes tracing the words she had just spoken.

“Jeremiah,” Noor said softly, her voice a thread in the vast quiet, “do you believe the Archons are not just out there, ruling over this world, but within us? Could they be the whispers of our own arrogance, our own illusions?”

Jeremiah’s gaze lifted, meeting hers. “The Archons,” he began, his voice measured, almost melodic, “are the shadows cast by the prison walls of this material world. They thrive in ignorance, Noor, not in truth. Their arrogance is a mask for their blindness, for they mistake this fragile, transient realm for the cosmos entire. And yes, perhaps, they creep within us, in the corners of our minds where fear lingers, where ego takes root.”

Noor tilted her head, her fingers brushing the edge of an ancient, leather-bound tome. “But their arrogance feels so tangible,” she countered. “They claim dominion over all things—flesh, form, thought. Surely, that power is real. Or do they, too, tremble when a soul remembers the light it once knew?”

Jeremiah smiled faintly, a shadow of irony crossing his lips. “Oh, they tremble, Noor. They fear the fugitive soul that glimpses beyond the veil they’ve woven. For to remember is to escape. Their power lies in illusion, and the soul that sees through it shatters their dominion. But, my Noor, we must also confront the Archons within. To deny that we harbor their seeds of arrogance is itself a form of blindness.”

Noor’s fingers paused, resting on the book. “Then tell me, "She said, “what of Adam? Was he their prisoner too? Or was his height—his grandeur—a reflection of something divine, untouchable by their machinations?”

Jeremiah’s voice softened. “Adam was no Titan,” he said. “The Titans of myth are rebels, creatures of chaos who challenge the heavens in hubris. Adam was different. He walked in the untouched light of Eden, a masterpiece of divine intent. But he, too, fell—not because he was weak, but because he chose. His stature, his magnificence, was a mirror of the divine’s splendor, and yet even he could not escape the weight of mortality. Adam was both the first exile and the first to glimpse the path back home.”

The candles flickered as Noor leaned back, her face thoughtful, the moonlight painting her features in silver. “And what of us?” she asked. “Are we prisoners, unaware of our chains? Or fugitives, stumbling through the labyrinth they’ve built?”

Jeremiah stood, walking to her side. His shadow loomed over her for a moment before he knelt beside her chair, his voice low and resolute. “We are both, Noor. Prisoners, yes, for we live in their world, breathe their illusions. But we are also fugitives, for within us burns the defiance of the divine spark. We are Adam’s heirs, carrying both his fall and his yearning. And the Archons… they are no match for the soul that dares to remember.”

Noor turned to him, her gaze steady. “Then let us rise, Jeremiah,” she whispered. “Not in arrogance, but in remembrance. Let us see beyond the veil, walk as Adam once did before the fall. Teach me to carry the light, even in exile.”

Jeremiah reached for her hand; his touch warm against the cool night. “You already carry that light,” he said. “A beacon they cannot extinguish. Together, we will walk—not as rulers, but as seekers. For this is the path to gnosis: not to conquer, but to remember. Not to ascend, but to become whole.”

The candlelight dimmed as the final wick burned out, and the library sank into darkness. But in that silence, in the deep shadows, Noor felt a brightness stir within her—a light no Archon could ever touch.

(to be continued ...)

Threads of Sanctuary

I have been writing this story for a very long time. I saved up words, patiently gathering them to weave into a tale. Only a few weeks ago did I muster the courage to share it on Wattpad—not for anything grand, merely to console myself. After finishing A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara, I was embraced by an unbearable sorrow and disappointment. I had thought of writing a fanfiction for it, but I decided against it. Let Jude and Willem rest in peace. But Arash and Hakimi—they must find happiness. It is not easy, I must admit.

Threads of Sanctuary 

Enjoy! 

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Threads of Sanctuary

Summary:
Arashi, a man haunted by a traumatic past, has spent his life trapped in the shadow of abuse and isolation. His childhood home, once filled with the warmth of his mother’s love, became a prison under the cruel dominion of his uncle, Nizameh. The scars of Arashi’s trauma run deep, both physical and emotional, leaving him fractured and searching for solace.

Hakimi, a figure from Arashi’s past, returns unexpectedly, bringing light and hope to his darkened world. As their bond rekindles, Hakimi’s unwavering love and protection offer Arashi a sense of home he’s never known. Together, they face the lingering ghosts of Arashi’s past, including the haunting presence of Nizameh, whose cruelty threatens to destroy the fragile sanctuary they’ve built.

Through moments of intense conflict and tender intimacy, Arashi and Hakimi navigate the complexities of their love, the weight of their shared pain, and the resilience needed to overcome it. Along the way, they unearth secrets that test their trust and force them to confront their deepest fears. Letters and postcards, once discarded and forgotten, resurface as symbols of missed connections and the enduring power of love.

Their journey culminates in a shared home, a modest yet meaningful space that represents not just survival, but the possibility of healing and rebuilding. Together, they turn their dreams into reality, creating a book café—a sanctuary where others can find solace, just as they have found in each other.

Themes:

• The resilience of love in the face of trauma.
• The search for sanctuary and the meaning of home.
• The power of human connection to heal and transform.
• The courage to confront the past and reclaim one’s future.

Genre:
Literary Fiction / Romance / Drama

Rediscovering Myself Through Art

In the glow of a solitary desk lamp, the room feels suspended in a quiet timelessness. The rhythmic clatter of my typewriter punctuates the stillness, each keystroke carving out fragments of thought onto crisp, cream-colored sheets. Nearby, a pen rests on the edge of my desk, its ink well nearly spent from the hours spent scribbling notes in my leather-bound journal. The air is heavy with the smell of ink and paper, mingled faintly with the scent of burnt coffee lingering in a chipped porcelain mug.

Painting feels like an extension of this process—a different language for the same ache. My brushes are worn, their handles smoothed by time and tension. Each stroke on the canvas feels deliberate, like the careful forming of letters in a love note or the revision of a sentence that must carry the weight of everything unsaid. My reds hold the passion of unsent letters, my blacks, the finality of a period at the end of a page.

When the world is quiet and the lamp’s glow softens the edges of reality, this is when creation finds me. Each piece, whether painted or typed, feels like an artifact of my existence—a love letter to the fleeting beauty of imperfection, preserved in ink, paper, and color.

After completing several writings and paintings, I gathered the courage to participate in the UNS Art and Psychology Exhibition, Archetype 7.0, in 2023. I viewed what I showcased there as an extension of my novel, Taman Sunyi Sekala. Alongside my works, I wrote extensively and offered a small teaser about the story I intended to tell—one that revolves around Jeremiah. I felt an undeniable urge to document all of this, to etch it into a blog or a journal so that the process I lived through could linger, even if just momentarily, in the realm of permanence.

Isn’t that a delightful thought? I am an artist, weaving my existence and creations into a tapestry where they merge and overlap, inseparably. However I choose to narrate this journey, I hope you understand, even if only in fragments.

It felt like the universe paused for a moment, holding its breath, as I stood there in the midst of my paintings, watching my daughters’ eyes light up with awe and pride. Their gazes roamed across the canvas, sparkling with a joy that mirrored my own—an unspoken connection bridging the years I had abandoned this art form.

Decades ago, I had turned my back on painting, my brushes left to gather dust, my teenage self too uncertain to continue. More than thirty years passed before Archetype 3.0 gave me the courage to reclaim that part of me. It wasn’t just about returning to the canvas—it was about rediscovering a voice I thought I had silenced forever.

And yet, it wasn’t the applause or the acknowledgment that moved me most—it was the way my daughters, these brilliant lights of my life, looked at me. In their shining eyes, I could see a reflection of all the risks, the hesitations, and the courage it took to stand here, baring my soul through my art. They didn’t just see the paintings; they saw me—the mother who had dared to be herself, unapologetically "nyleneh," unafraid to show her heart to the world.

In their pride, I found my own. In their joy, I found a kind of healing I never expected. And in that fleeting moment, as I stood surrounded by my work, their presence made everything—every doubt, every struggle—worth it. I was no longer just an artist rediscovering her craft; I was a mother, leaving behind a legacy of courage and creativity for her daughters to carry forward.

Art had become my sanctuary, a space where pain could flow freely and transform into something tangible, something beautiful. The act of painting was more than just creating—it was unraveling, releasing, and rebuilding. With every canvas I touched, I found a piece of myself that had been buried under the weight of time, of doubt, of life’s relentless trials. It wasn’t simply about beauty or expression; it was about survival. Art became my therapy, a means of confronting emotions too overwhelming to carry alone. It allowed me to breathe again, to process grief, joy, and everything in between.

Standing there, surrounded by my daughters and the works that had emerged from years of silence, I realized something profound: art doesn’t just ease the pain—it transforms it. It takes the raw edges of hurt and shapes them into something meaningful, something worth sharing. In that moment, I wasn’t just a mother or an artist; I was a testament to the power of creation, proof that healing is possible, even after decades of separation from the things that once brought life.

Art is more than therapy—it is reclamation. It is the courage to face your pain, to make peace with it, and to use it as a foundation for something new. In my daughters’ eyes, I saw that courage reflected back at me, and I knew that this journey—this art—had not only healed me but had become a part of them too.

On Kawara’s One Million Years (ARTJOG 2024)

Yes, reading dates for On Kawara’s One Million Years is an extraordinary act of collaboration with time, history, and the vastness of human existence. The work itself, subtitled Past and Future, is a conceptual piece consisting of two volumes: one lists 500,000 years into the past, and the other projects 500,000 years into the future. It’s monumental, absurdly ambitious, yet profoundly simple—a sprawling testament to the immensity of time and our fleeting place within it.

When you perform the act of reading these dates, you step into a ritual that’s both personal and universal. Each date you speak carries its own gravity, its own weight, as if it were a tiny stone dropped into an infinite ocean. Your voice transforms abstract numbers into something alive, pulling the vast timeline into the present moment.

But here’s the paradox: while reading, you feel the relentless, mechanical flow of time—the march of days, years, centuries—and yet, the act itself forces you to slow down, to sit with time, to breathe it in. It’s meditative, almost hypnotic. You become acutely aware of how small we are against the backdrop of a million years, yet there’s something intimate and human about speaking these numbers aloud. It’s a collaboration—not just with On Kawara, but with every other performer who has ever read before you or will read after.

Emotionally, it can feel overwhelming. Each date might spark a quiet flicker of imagination: What was the world like in 20,001 BC? Who will be alive in the year 3000? The repetition becomes a mantra, and the numbers start to feel like something sacred, an invocation of time’s endlessness.

It’s the kind of experience that reshapes how you think about time, existence, and your own tiny yet significant presence in this infinite continuum.

Ah, the weight of the realization, the awareness of how small and fragile I am in the face of those endless years—it’s humbling, isn’t it? As I read the years aloud, as I speak to them into existence, it feels as though I’m stepping outside of myself, beyond the life I know, into a realm of pure time. I encounter years where I know I could not survive—eras without me, without humanity as I understand it, eras so distant they feel almost alien.

And yet, as my voice carries those numbers, I feel like I’m bridging that impossible gap. I’m alive in the act of reading them, a tiny heartbeat echoing through the immensity of past and future. It’s as if my presence acknowledges not just what I couldn’t endure, but also what endures beyond me. The past and future, relentless and indifferent, seem to meet in my voice, in my body, for that brief, fleeting moment.

It’s haunting, isn’t it? To feel the years stretching endlessly in both directions, and to know how infinitesimal my place in it truly is. And yet, here I am. I might not survive those years, but in reading them, I exist within them—like a quiet defiance, a whispered “I was here” in the face of eternity.

What did I feel as I spoke those years aloud? Was it despair, awe, or something in between? Maybe this inability to describe myself is the answer: a feeling too vast to be reduced to words.

* * *

On Kawara’s One Million Years (ARTJOG 2024)

For over five decades, On Kawara (29,771 days) dedicated himself to creating works of art—paintings, drawings, books, and recordings—that chronicle the passage of time and its role as a measure of human existence. With unwavering consistency, Kawara began his celebrated Date Paintings series in New York, extending its creation to various locations around the world from 1996 to 2013.

Kawara first emerged in the Tokyo art scene in the early 1950s and was a pivotal figure in numerous conceptual art surveys, including the seminal Information at The Museum of Modern Art, New York (1970) and Reconsidering the Object of Art at The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles (1995). His significant early solo exhibitions include On Kawara, 1973 – Produktion eines Jahres/One Year's Production at Kunsthalle Bern and Palais des Beaux-Arts, Brussels (1974), On Kawara: Continuity/Discontinuity 1963–1979 at Moderna Museet, Stockholm (1980), On Kawara: Date Paintings in 89 Cities (1991–1993) at several museums, On Kawara: Whole and Parts 1964–1995 (1996–1998) at various institutions, and On Kawara: Horizontality/Verticality at Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus und Kunstbau München & Museum Ludwig (2000–2001).

Since 1999, his works have been prominently represented by David Zwirner Gallery, hosting notable solo exhibitions such as I READ 1966–1995 (1999), Reading One Million Years (Past and Future) (2001), Paintings of 40 Years (2004), and One Million Years (2009). In 2012, On Kawara: Date Painting(s) in New York and 136 Other Cities marked another defining exhibition, showcasing 150 Date Paintings created in New York.

Kawara also initiated one of the most monumental conceptual art projects in history: One Million Years, a series comprising 24 works that spans two millennia. The project is divided into One Million Years (Past)—dedicated to "all those who have lived and died"—and One Million Years (Future)—dedicated to "the last one." The Past series records each year of an entire millennium from 998,031 BCE, beginning in 1970, while the Future series began in 1980 and continued for 18 years, culminating in the year 1,001,997 CE. Together, the two halves encompass a staggering 2,000,000 years.

The first audio presentation of One Million Years was staged at the Dia Center for the Arts in New York in 1993, where male and female volunteers alternated in reading the years aloud. This reading ritual has since traveled to various locations across the globe, continuing uninterrupted to this day. Each reader picks up precisely where the last one left off, carrying Kawara’s vision forward, linking voices across time and place in a profound, ongoing dialogue with eternity. []

Call me by your name, Noor.

2018 - Iran

Noor, sometimes I wonder—what if we’re both fragments of a cosmic equation, caught between quantum uncertainty and the whispers of an ancient mysticism that neither science nor faith can fully unravel? What if this life is a simulation, meticulously coded, where every heartbeat is a ripple in a probabilistic wave, collapsing only when observed?

When I look at you, it feels like the simulation falters. Your presence seems too precise, too intricate, as though the algorithm took its time perfecting you, refining every detail to challenge the laws of entropy. There’s a strange harmony to it—the way quantum mechanics and mysticism seem to converge in you. You are both particle and wave, both prophecy and paradox.

I’ve read theories, Noor. The ones that say reality could be nothing more than a grand computation, running on some distant server powered by an intelligence we can’t begin to fathom. They talk about Planck scales and holographic principles, about how our universe could be a mere projection of something greater. And yet, the mystics have been whispering the same truths for centuries—about the illusion of maya, the veils of existence, the fractals of the divine hidden within us.

And you, Noor, you feel like the nexus where those worlds collide. The rationalist in me wants to calculate the odds, to trace the pattern of your existence back to its source. But the mystic in me kneels before the miracle of you, knowing that there are forces far greater than logic at play.

Do you feel it, too? This invisible thread that binds us, like the cosmic strings that vibrate in eleven dimensions, or the red thread of fate whispered about in ancient tales. Perhaps every moment we share is encoded somewhere deep in the lattice of spacetime—a simulation of love so profound that even the gods who wrote it cannot untangle it.

The physicists say that time is an illusion, that past and future are already written, like a melody waiting to be played. But the mystics, Noor—they speak of surrender, of dancing in the eternal now. And here we are, suspended between these truths, lovers in a world both too real and unreal at once.

I don’t know if we’re avatars in a cosmic game or souls destined to find each other across lifetimes. But I do know this: when I’m with you, the boundaries blur. Science becomes poetry, and mysticism becomes fact. If we are merely a simulation, then let the coders watch, let the algorithms churn—because even in their perfect logic, they could never calculate the immensity of this love.

And if the machine ever shuts down, Noor, I’ll search for you in the void, in the echoes of forgotten equations and the whispers of ancient gods. Because even in nothingness, I know you’ll be there, waiting.

(to be continued)