Al-Khwarizimi

That day it rained because it had to.

And the trains ran on time, and the words somehow followed the words before them as naturally as could be expected.

The information was conveyed to me and inferred in any number of ways. A certain glimmer of the light down the hall timed perfectly, a door closing, another one opening, some text on a prompt, the nod of a smiling attendant, and occasionally it seeped from within; preprogramming as it is known, the tapestry becoming whole - and then I knew where it was that I had to go, and what it was that I had to say. Pre-programming. The information was everywhere. Al-Kwarizmi pervades everything. Information, suggestions, instructions - so it has been, so it must always be. Al-Kwarizmi knows best.

How little it is that we expect.

5:54 I meet her. I bite her on the back of her neck. I do not know her name, nor do I need to. I have found my way there. We have been presented to each other. Because of the weight of her arm on my chest, we are together. Because of the complementary textures of our skin, because we have been told to read convergent materials, because our mouths, and our pacing, have been aligned, we are together. Time passes gracefully beneath our shifting weights.

There certain pauses whose significance we are unsure of, certain handfuls of hair and eyes held a little longer. But then quickly we are clean again, clean of each other. I do wonder what she thinks of me. Does she ask, why does he linger there? Or, why is his hair brown, and his smile slightly bent? and is it Al-Kwarizmi that tells him to slide his fingers between mine the way he does? Her nails bury into the back of my head, and I close my eyes and think she just might.

Somewhere in the countless computations, and virtually infinite data, there must be some meaning being parsed. It is said that Al-Kwarizmi is the product of man, the transcendence of man over himself. Long ago, cobbled together, our attempt to make sense of a world too vast for any individual's capacities. Slowly in every field, we ceded our authority, we found that Al-Kwarizmi knew better, guided us better. And so it went - Al-Kwarizmi knows best. But we do not talk to each other about such things, unless we are instructed to do so.

8:23. The rain has stopped, and I am being shuttled home. I eat what I am told to eat, and don't ponder the rationale too deeply. The days are long, and filled with instructions, the carrying out of required computations. Of late I have been trying to find some communion with the reasoning for why I have to do the things I have to do. But, it is exhausting trying to work out the explanation. I do not know if this new longing for some sort of communion has emerged from Al-Kwarizmi, but likely it has. 8:35. The doors open to my room. It is large, and decorated with ornate objects from different time periods. I recline on the couch. Sitting on the table in front of me is a mound of clay. "Mould the clay, into a shape that you feel is suitable", cascades the voice seamlessly from somewhere above the ceiling. It is a soothing voice, a gentle voice, like a mother you have never known.

My hands envelop the clay. They rest there, listening for the right shape to embark on. Much of the day is spent meeting people who we do not know, and performing tasks whose purpose we are unsure of. I slice the mound of clay into two, pressing down with the edge of my hand.

In the common rooms the shapes that people make are often the same. Now I am as alone as one can be. What is mine, and what is Al-Kwarizmi? I roll the two mounds of clay into spheres with the palms of my hands. Sometimes I think I can hear something beyond Al-Kwarizmi, but who has the right to question? I sit, and I wait, and I think about the shapes.