It’s how all the stories start. They tell you of what was and what wasn’t, but they don’t tell you which is which.
Perhaps you are seven. Perhaps you are eight. You ask the sweet, greying hakawati (story crafter) “but a'amu (uncle), was it real?” Your eyes bright with eagerness and hope. And he tells you, his smile never faltering, “kan wa ma kan, my child. It was and it wasn’t. Perhaps it is real. Perhaps there were caverns and theives and treasure. Perhaps there were empires and warriors and charmers. Perhaps it was the land of mysteries- the very land that Shahrazad spoke of. And perhaps it was not.”
You close your eyes to better imagine the stories the old man tells. What a wild thing it was, your imagination- and even wilder his was, for the stories he crafted were his own. Flying carpets. Music. Mercenaries. A king’s banquet. A marid (jinn) to make your wishes come true. “But was it?” You ask. Desperately hoping it was. And more so wishing it is. “It was and it wasn’t,” your hakawati says smiling.
You can smell the sweet smoke from the altars that burn ever so steadily; consuming an offering to gods long forgotten. You can hear the echoes of music long since silenced. You see the dances of people long dead. You know their stories. “But was it?” You press further. “It was and it wasn’t,” the old man says, his smile never fading.
You’re out in the golden dunes of Arabia. A glistening object catches your eye and you take hold of it- and you are knocked back by the force of the marid storming out. “Shobeik lobeik. A'bdak bein edeik. Your wish is my command.” He says. But you have no desire for anything other than answers “was it real?” You ask, but he disintegrates into whatever nothingness he came from, leaving you askingyourselfwhether or not it was. Whether or not you are.
You are growing up. You are now thirteen. You have yet to stop asking “was it?” Your father says it was not. Your brother says it was not. Your friend says it was not. But you are wild and stubborn. You say “but what if it was?” And they laugh you off.
Four years later and you are seventeen; and the raging fire of the stories’ magic within you dims to embers. Your hakawati has long since passed away. You keep his smile tucked into a fold so deep in your heart you nearly forget about it. And you stop asking for stories. You stop asking “was it?” And what is even worse, though, is that you start to believe that perhaps, after all, it was not. That it never was.
But I am here to tell you this; it was. You spoke to the marid. You heard the music. You saw the people dancing and you smelled the offerings to their gods. It might be so deep within you, as deep as your beloved hakawati’s smile is buried. And I want you to know that you, now, have your answer.
do y’all remember before direct messages tumblr had a dumbass ask limit of 10 per hour and communication was impossible until they introduced dumbass fan mail and we were basically sending telegraphs back in forth trying to communicate those were…dark times
Do y'all remember when they finally gave us direct messages and instead of doing it normally, they gave it to a few people at a time and we had to infect each other with it like a virus
remember when any post with more than like 6 people talking was unreadably smushed except for the last few additions remember when any post of over 500 characters became a link back to op’s blog readmore style remember when video and audio posts had about a 10% chance of working when you click play
As a recent user I love finding out shit like this from older users. What the fuck guys???? Why were you USING IT AT ALL?!??
15th march on other sites is just like ‘its mid march I guess??’ but on Tumblr it’s all 'hey remember when we all teamed up to murder a politician? We should do that again’ as if we were all personally there to kill Caesar
Penelope: Colin says I’m just a good friend there’s no way he likes me
Lady Danbury: Colin Bridgerton looks at you like he just went to a Smythe-Smith musicale and you’re the last chocolate eclair in the refreshment table! Friends my ass
Lady Danbury: I’ve seen starving men with more dignity
sometimes i think about the night destiel went canon and how everyone on the internet, whether they were in the fandom or not, just went down the line shaking hands like good game good game. that’s the closest we’ll ever get to world peace
