His eyes, filled with distress, overlooked the inscriptions in front of him. His lecturer checked scripts nonchalantly, marking each page with strokes of red to underline errors. Drenched in sweat, his anxiety steamed up his spectacles, blurring his vision. Around him, people boasted, their voices carrying the agonizing reverberations of personal achievements which echoed through his ears, consuming his thoughts like a starving parasite. As the commotion of individuals began fading, he found himself immersed in a miserable void. His classes had ended, but his attachment to learning still remained pointless. He looked at the bag of manuscripts with disgust, which were once objects of his boundless admiration. His desire for intelligence was of blazing torture, yet he worshipped its presence in his wretched existence. Its blaze left him with unhealable scars; countless insults were hurled at him as he enunciated his wish to just learn.

Tears flooded his eyes.

“Why is it such a sin to wish for knowledge?” he asked the Almighty. The question hung unanswered, his voice alone resonating through the space. It seemed that even the Almighty had abandoned this seeker. This fatal attraction would soon receive his excruciating hatred which would lead to the demise of a resilient yet tragic bond.

The lecturer handed back his paper carelessly. Trembling as he stared at his horrible grades, he soon crumpled it to shove it into his bag. After leaving the classroom in dismay, he soon descended the stairs almost blankly. The air brushed against him desolately as if death itself was approaching. Education took people to the greatest heights, but all he ever received was rejection. He faced denunciation and frustration as he beseeched many men to earn just enough. However, he could never witness the light of success.

He stood there, next to the building, admiring the night’s tranquility as it echoed the complexity and restlessness of human thoughts. The nightfall carried secrecy, mirroring the human mind with a myriad of stories. While some of these narratives whittled scars of raging agony, others felt like the touch of soft feathers providing comfort. However, these tales might conceal the true identities of the individuals they belong to. Though comforting like stars on a cold night, up close they burn like scorching globules of fire.

The interspersed smell of fresh rain, the smoke of antediluvian cigarettes, and stuffy old shops stirred musings in him as nostalgia enveloped his thoughts. Dozens of books, encyclopedias, all that ever interested him, piled up to form the highest peak of success and accomplishments. The cluttered noise of people talking, dogs barking, spoons clanking in the tea stalls had all ceased abruptly. Now in this peaceful setting, it felt as if his heart had stopped beating.

However, this serene milieu had to come to an end. He stood by the road, mortified, as he watched vehicles disappear from his sight. Within a few minutes, he found himself standing in front of his home, still horrified as he recalled his mother’s face. Her clothes were tainted by the stain of various spices and pigments which also concealed countless wounds and scars. Her pupils were pitch black, engulfed by agitation and poverty; her face, wrinkled by the dilemmas of raising for an idler. He closed his eyes, trying to picture her once more. He wondered if he was a good son, but then realized it did not matter anymore. The lust for knowledge had reached such an unbearable point and yet he stood there, jobless. The house was falling apart; the bills remained paid. How would he present his failure to her again? Standing before the door of his crumbling residence, he felt himself grow colder, as if he were without a sweater on an icy winter. The atmosphere was heavy and constricted, as if it was moments before the strike of a disaster.

Soon, the creaking door swung wide open. He slowly opened his bag, his hands trembling as he handed over the symbol of his misfortune—a reluctantly presented graded sheet.

Then with quick, heavy steps, he left the scene.

It has been a long time since his father died. However, it was certain that his mother was not consumed by a gulf of grief but rather, it was disappointment. Her son had proven nothing but his incompetence. Will he ever witness the dawn of success?

She stared at the mark sheet as these thoughts filled her head.

Tears fell down her face as she questioned the heavens. “Haven’t I done enough? What prophecy curses my child?”

Closing the door gently, a rueful smile crossed her face—a face that had come to accept her painful destiny.

He left the silence behind, squeezing himself through the creaking, rusty door, eager to escape his mother's lingering presence. Yet, even as he fled, the image of her standing motionless, her eyes hollow and consumed by an unseen abyss, haunted him. He shut the wooden door of his room and positioned himself in front of a towering, antique mirror. The mirror, covered in dust and speckled with rust, reflected his tormented eyes as if they were glowing embers of Tartarus, a mythical dungeon of torment from ancient stories. It casted a light that filled the room with his silent yet ear-piercing despair. He was attracted by the grand promises of knowledge, but they turned out to be empty, similar to how Othello from Shakespeare's play was tricked by his trusted friend, Iago. No words could possibly describe his eternal passion, which now burned like the fiery river of Phlegethon, flowing in the underworld of Tartarus.

He remained fazed as he realized that knowledge was not the only force that shaped this world. Perhaps this was why he felt a sense of guilt as he studied for days without repose.

“Is it a crime to ask for all the intellect in the world just because it will never be possible?” a part of him pondered.

“Or does this very question curse my existence?” another part of him wondered.

An answer almost took shape within him, but it quickly vanished as if burned away by the relentless flames inside him. These overwhelming questions never left his mind; they were like a curse submerging him to the depths of sorrow. He felt like someone in a tragic story, constantly pursuing knowledge, yet as the knowledge grew, he felt more submerged, unable to find success or peace.

His painful obsession never left him. Like Oedipus, who accepted his tragic destiny, he too faced his own fate. In a dramatic gesture of self-punishment, much like Oedipus blinding himself for his errors, he turned away from this world, overwhelmed by his intense love for 

knowledge.

While he did wish to die, he was certain that even death would not accept him until he had been tortured enough. His intense devotion had become both his muse and tormentor, drawing him even deeper into isolation from the ordinary ecstasies and sorrows of life. Perhaps this was destiny, or a new fable of God’s grand creations.