"I couldn't do it but did I?" A Modern Khajiiti tale

Publisher's note: This story in particular has only ever been written in Ta'agra until published by the Hlaalu Cultural Development Foundation. It has been a challenge but we believe we've done the best any non-native Ta'agra speaker can do with our budget.

Translator 1's message: Ta'agra's malleability with meaning made this incredibly difficult and oftentimes unreadable, however I hope that it is still an a wonderful tale for the reader.

Translator 2's message: This is, by far, my hardest commission yet. Despite this, I hope that through the difficulties of learning and making sense of both the story's direction and the pure translation that the themes of the text are not held back by these issues. Enjoy!

"Well..." sighs Joshur

"get a feeling so complicated."

"But if you wrote it then you are not difference?" Shaba responds

Joshur walks up and out of his home-house and is followed by Shaba.

"It is different because it's not the same. If the story was not the same then should I still make it?" Joshur states

"Wy knit? But everyone wants The Scarf!" Shaba attempts to cheer Joshur.

"They don't even know yet. The Scarf can't make me loved if they don't read it and I don't write it"

"But what's the other thing you're making?"

"It's like it but not really it so does it even matter"

Many walk past them as they decide to try to find a more secluded alley to share their thoughts.

"I just can't do the thing I want but everything around it works!"

Flyingly, a group of shaded men appear.

"Hey, you're in a good place to get stabbed!" One shaded [beast?] announces.

Joshur is so depressed he doesn't even know what drawings are. Very Lucky! Balloon with oil has floated over the alley so Shaba shot down the balloon down and they all got so oiled that they feared death and ran off.

"Look, it's not something I can explain. I can't just say I don't feel like finishing it, because I do, I really do. But even then if I knew what the problem was that doesn't change the fact I'm still not doing it. There's a yearning to complete something wonderful that won't just make my name better but will make me feel like an accomplished and valid being. How can I just say that I'm as accomplished or worthwhile of being myself when it feels like I haven't even completed something that could prove it?"

"You don't have to live like that, you know. You don't need to live for a reason or a creation or even a god. Live for the sake of living and all those things will compliment your life, if you stick to one and shun the rest you'll run in a small, comfy circle. That circle isn't the true world, it's only the one you're used to that changes a little bit because you've made a new footprint each time. Then when the circle tires you, what other world is there to explore? You're too tired to leave that circle and what made you live will be what made you die."

Joshur wanted the perfect response, but simply couldn't think of one; part of why he feels like he can't finish "The Scarf".

"I don't expect you to do anything drastic, but I don't want you to lounge around doubting your own worth. If you do that you're only further proving what you're afraid of being."

Text men then walk into fighting ground sport. Arting men begin to contact! but Joshur cannot join the happiness.

"I want mystery, romance and good enjoyment in my book, but cannot get them all. I LOVE THIS BUT I'M BORED?" Joshur moans. Even martial arts isn't fun now.

"What else do you do out of book?" Shaba asks

"I watch here mostly, Nasha is bad cat backstage but very good from tribe."

"Ever write about him or this?"

"Yes, but it's never the same and it's not Scarfing! Nasha wouldn't care otherwise"

"Nasha really scarfs? No dignity."

"His sex affairs are vagrant."

The next day Joshur is on his floor, somehow more comfortable than his own bed at the moment. The only way he feels this makes sense is because it's just a little different from being in bed like every other day. He glances over towards a page discussing the "shadowy cat with sexy eyes", annoyed at his attempt at a compelling description. Everything he needs is in his head, but he just can't get it all out; and when he can it's not as good as he knows it could be. It's like a metaphor for his own life and it's right in his face.

He looks out towards the door. This would be the perfect time for someone to walk through and lead this scene onto something new and fresh. But no one's there. He's not a character, this isn't a scene and there isn't a catalyst to move him forward. Now, all he can do is look up into his ceiling and do one of two things: either he can realise this is a time for change to happen from within and direct himself into a newer, brighter tomorrow; or he can get high again and forget all his troubles until he next wakes up.

Unfortunately, he didn't seem to do anything. He lay there limp as can be and just stared upwards into his ceiling and somehow further into the heavens. Maybe he was hoping for a response, that he would gaze so far out that something might gaze back. Perhaps he wondered if gravity would reverse and he was actually looking down from a position where the only way was higher up and all things around him would fall below to the surreal inverted floor. But really, he just didn't want to do anything. All that required the effort and initiative he simply didn't care to use, or felt as though was just a finger's length out of his grasp. All these silly thoughts whirling around in his mind, but in reality he was just a young man lieing on the ground. What whirls in the head so wonderfully had to be contained in the mind of someone who saw himself as no different than a gray mob of faceless figures that became the epitome of "civilisation" to him.

One week later he met with hero Ra'Gada who wrote about fictional dancing men named after himself.

"You can really fart!" Ra'Gada said

"yes, isn't the page so much nothing?" Joshur replies

"Turn down the pillars for where?"

"His name is after a place, it's cool. They're important because that's where these dudes come in kill"

"But why kill?"

"I need something to happen and they're not important."

"But you understand, they get the thing here, if you don't know they're ghost stands and the actual cat is ignored that there is more mystery for that cannot be mystified from mysterious minds"

"But then why write it like that if it's not even enough of a deal to know what happened to them?"

"Are you super retard? It is a mystery, make more mysteries so they're not bored"

"what a good necktie".

This was important for Joshur now he feels inspired by new knowledge. He gets some paper and goes to write but then looks at the page numbers but there aren't any. This is small splash in fish home. When hard work is so small how will he know the goodness? It's challenging.

Many months later Joshur brought himself to complete "The Scarf", at least to the best of his abilities. It could never reach the perfection that he wanted, but the relief was more than enough to make him disregard that. Perfection, he had learned, was much easier to write in a character than it is to achieve. Even though not everything was detailed, not every event had been fully planned and not every character was fully designed he was proud of his finished work that would become loved by many novel readers throughout Secunda.

The beauty of imperfection was that instead of harsh resentment, it would act like a garden. There would always be the feeling that wherever something was not present there would be room for something wonderful to grow by itself.