12/12/2025
✦ Chapter Thirteen — Where Fates Are Forged in a Blind Spark ✦
**(Randomness: the mother of existence; consciousness: its original sin)**
Amr did not return from death seeking shelter in life.
He returned carrying a coal that refused to cool.
Why was I made this way?
Why does my own body conspire against me
whenever I try to live as others do—
without fear,
without a storm waiting behind my ribs?
Was it punishment?
Bad luck?
Or merely a typographical error in the book of creation?
Slowly, painfully, he began to understand:
He had not been targeted.
Nature was not punishing him.
He was simply the fruit of a coincidence—
thrown into the wrong place,
at the wrong time,
in the wrong draft of the universe.
No sin committed.
No justice misplaced.
Only the blind machinery of nature
copying life in haste,
without revision,
without proofreading,
then moving on,
leaving the survivors and the wounded
to invent meaning for a pain never intended.
That night, beneath a window watching the silence of the city,
Amr waited for the next spark in his journey through the chain of his own becoming—
toward the workshop where his body had first taken shape.
He whispered the word that split time open:
**Begin.**
And the world convulsed.
---
# # 1 — The City of Fathers
He plunged into a throbbing red laboratory—
a city of flesh and electricity
that neither rests nor knows what it creates.
He was no longer a body,
but awareness searching for its first outline.
Here the prime spark is poured,
before it becomes a cell,
before it becomes a soul.
The father’s testis—
that silent kingdom no one praises,
yet it manufactures every triumph… and every ruin.
Cells raged in multiplication:
dividing, dividing, dividing—
copying the book of creation
letter by letter
onto the glowing spiral of DNA,
coiled like a serpent of light.
Every copy screamed into the void:
**Choose me to exist!
Let me reach the light!**
Millions of molecular workers
cut and paste with frantic, half-blind precision—
a noble chaos,
but packed with errors that cannot be undone.
Twenty-three chapters of genetic scripture,
a library without readers,
without editors,
without authorship.
Amr searched for himself in this storm
and found fragments scattered—
half a presence
waiting for a body not yet born.
Where was the flaw that would one day ignite his brain?
Where was the spark destined to become the seizure that devoured his consciousness?
But this city was a tempest of possibilities,
a realm where no single truth survives.
And in his ears rose names like incantations:
**SCN1A… KCNQ2… GABRA…**
Tiny letters
writing enormous destinies.
One mutation,
one shifted nucleotide,
and an entire continent in the brain slides into chaos.
In that instant Amr grasped a terrifying truth:
**Beginnings are trivial…
but their accumulations grow into mountains no hand can move.**
---
# # 2 — The Chaos of Justice
Amr had believed his epilepsy had a single enemy—
an identifiable foe he could hunt down and destroy.
But here?
There was no commander for fate,
no author of illness,
no malign intention…
and no benevolent one.
Everything blended with everything:
Tiny mistakes
merging,
scattering,
colliding,
and dancing toward the future
completely indifferent
to whoever would suffer because of them.
Which of these errors was his?
Which one deserved repair?
The universe answered with its roaring silence:
**There is no single error.
There is only chaos.**
Possibilities marching forward
like a blind army,
never looking back
to see whom they trample.
---
# # 3 — The Blindness That Made Us
Trying to fix a single gene
was like trying to rearrange the sea with bare hands.
His epilepsy was not born of one misprint—
but of an entire symphony
played by mutations without a conductor.
There was no lone culprit,
nor even a clear group of suspects;
only a shifting landscape of probabilities:
some dormant,
some waiting for a spark from the environment,
some activated by a maternal gene,
some erupting because of a single mis-timed expression.
How do you punish a gene
that hasn’t committed its crime yet?
How do you repair a possibility
that still sleeps in the dark?
He understood at last:
He was not searching for a “culprit,”
but for **meaning**.
---
# # 4 — The Defeat of the Hand… and the Victory of Survival
He stretched his hand toward the code,
trying to rewrite himself.
But the map was
an ocean without shores,
a night without stars,
an equation without a solution.
At last, the truth crystallized:
You cannot fix what has not yet happened.
You cannot interrogate a gene before it speaks.
You cannot halt a cascade
that has not yet begun.
Intervention here would be impossible—
a madness against the laws of existence.
And in that revelation, Amr touched the deepest truth:
**We do not shape our origins…
but we are responsible for what we make from their wreckage.**
---
# # 5 — A Promise Born of Understanding
The red laboratory dimmed.
The engines of creation fell silent,
and time reclaimed its rhythm.
Before the final light died in the City of Fathers,
a discovery erupted inside him—
not a whisper but an awakening:
**I will not chase a perfection that was never mine.
I will chase a life I can love,
even if it is incomplete.**
He had failed to change his origin—
but had finally understood why.
The problem was not in the gene itself…
but in the *story* consciousness tells about the gene.
This understanding—though searing—
was the first step toward a healing
that mends not the body
but the gaze with which one sees the body.
He crossed the silent border between science and fate and declared:
**I will not curse nature.
I will not bargain with destiny.
But I will understand my story—
even if I am not the hero life wished for,
even if I carry a burden I did not choose,
even if I walk a road not of my making—
for this road is mine.**
Every human, he realized, is but a printed version
of two scripts:
**The gene**, which shapes the body.
**The meme**, which shapes the mind—
the thoughts, fears, cultures, ethics, memories…
everything that makes us human rather than cell clusters.
Genes sculpt the face.
But behavior, madness, pain, and joy—
these are daily emissions
from neural networks built
from inherited genes
and absorbed memes.
Amr suddenly saw what had always been hidden:
His struggle was not with epilepsy,
but with **his consciousness of epilepsy**.
The universe does not care who survives or disappears.
Life—like the first slaughter of s***m in the dark sea of creation—
remembers no one.
All of us rush forward,
driven by impulses we never chose,
or perhaps chosen for us
by forces older than choice itself.
Why do we live?
To eat?
To reproduce?
To replicate the code again?
Then vanish without a sound?
Is that the whole story?
Then came the greatest revelation:
**Suffering is not in the body—
it is in consciousness.**
Not in his consciousness alone,
but in Leila’s, in Koko’s, in Alya’s—
those who look at him with love, fear, hope, and grief.
Consciousness is our blessing
and our catastrophe.
It gives meaning to existence—
to striving, to parenthood, to justice, to freedom—
but at the same time
it gives meaning to pain,
to injustice,
to longing,
to loss.
Consciousness invented meaning—
and so invented tragedy.
Before awareness, life was only a genetic storm in a dark ocean.
Few survived; most were erased.
But once consciousness arose,
the death of one person became a wound,
one cry became a history,
one life became more than flesh.
And Amr finally understood:
**The tragedy is not in the genes.
It is in the consciousness that gives the genes meaning.**
**The gift is not survival.
It is the eyes that would weep if we did not survive.**
Consciousness—
the wound
and the cure.
It reveals the chaos of nature,
yet gives that chaos a heart
that fears,
and loves,
and dreams,
and refuses to be nothing more
than a copy in an endless chain.
