Home > prose and poetry, thoughts > what happened to ahmad?

what happened to ahmad?

last night ahmad stepped into the back of a kuala lumpur taxi and came face to face with god. as you might expect, he was very surprised, although what one might not expect is that it was more because god looked particularly like ian mckellen during his turn as gandalf in the lord of the rings movies rather than any particular shock at meeting the creator, or hunter s. thompson’s Great Magnet.

ahmad hesitated for a moment but soon resumed the process of entering the back of a taxi while toting a briefcase and two bags of shopping. it might sound difficult, but for ahmad it’s nothing new. he’s had to do this nearly every other day. his girlfriend (yes, they lived together and yes, they did have sex and no, that does not concern any of us) never does any shopping, not even for those unmentionable unmentionables produced by companies such as kotex. so ahmad has to buy all of those things. and all the groceries. and all the food for their six cats.

ahmad has had to do a lot.

and now he had to talk to god as well. but he couldn’t, because then the taxi driver would think he was crazy, and that’s never good. you never know what these kuala lumpur taxi drivers are capable of. one minute you’re drinking from the bottle of water they offer you and the next minute you’re out cold and being whisked away to a mental hospital of some sort.

ahmad didn’t want that.

ahmad didn’t want to talk to god either. he was tired. he took a pen and a piece of paper out of his briefcase and wrote
“sorry god, i’m tired. sometime else, okay?”

the taxi driver started the engine up and pulled out into traffic. as soon as they began moving at a steady rhythm, ahmad fell asleep, clutching his briefcase and two bags of shopping.

ahmad was probably too tired realise that he hadn’t told the taxi driver where he wanted to go.

no-one’s seen ahmad since.

(I had an IM conversation with a friend of mine earlier tonight. She asked me what’s up with my blog. I said things like “my heart’s not in it” and rambled about not having anything to say and not wanting to write about the things I want to write about because they hurt me and rub against me uncomfortably and things like that. It’s all true, of course. I’m trying to not write because I only feel like writing about things that hurt just as much coming up as going down and that’s the last thing I need, honestly. I’m not writing because I don’t really have anything to say. I’m not writing, sad as it may seem, because no-one seems to be reading*. But no this blog isn’t dead. Just somewhat critically injured and in need of some curative magic spells, preferably cast by a cute white mage.

*I feel the same way about my photography, particularly the shots from the rolls of film I’ve been shooting lately, some of which are, I feel, some of my best work. Doing things “only for yourself,” while noble, just isn’t realistic. When you write, when you compose, when you take photographs with an artistic purpose in mind, you want people to see them. To read, to listen, to appreciate. At least that’s how I feel. Why would I really do things if no-one’s listening? Reading? Nodding their heads in approval or writing angry hate e-mails?

I find it incredibly hard to feel good about my own work, to feel some sort of pride. I can’t, or at least nothing more than a short bout of being chuffed with myself. Sad as it may seem, I have to rely on people saying good things about my work to provide that feel-good factor which I so desperately need. Perhaps that is what’s missing. A sense of pride in my “work.”)

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