Is it true?! Am I REALLY writing a post on my blog?!
Those are literally the thoughts in my head right now. It’s been ages since I’ve written anything of note, even my journal feels abandoned. While for me words are under every fold of my life and lifestyle, not writing feels like a bout of a very severe form of creative amnesia. My thoughts remain with me but the means to expressing them – a way to understand them – seem to have taken some kind of drug and passed out.
My writing nectar is probably hiding somewhere in one of those folds that I mentioned above. Resting with the words.
I do believe that my writing is the result of a nectar of sorts. That is how I see it. This nectar – made of all sorts of emotions – is what makes me write. When something stings me, or prods at me, or slowly caresses me in places, I write.
For the weeks that went by without me truly writing, my nectar was not absent. It was everywhere but ineffective.
I haven’t completely abandoned writing, but I have abandoned writing with focus. I think thoughts and let them pass. For once I am not attacking my mind or my heart or my soul by exposing them. For once, it feels like I am not writing on purpose.
What made me switch on my laptop and start writing this post is a set of words I’ve been struggling to learn. Arabic adjectives. I was writing them down and repeating them in hopes to have them stuck in my head, but I ended up thinking about the entity ‘word’ itself. There are so many of them. They are everywhere. Every person knows some words, and some of us even hang words on our walls or throw them into boxes and hide them away in the attic. Some of us make love to the words we read by the picture our mind creates in our head. Some of us abuse words and tYpE lYk DiZ.
I looked around my room and all the piles of books upon books (my room is a book lover’s mini heaven, I like to believe) made me think about all the billions of words in them – and I know I sound a little lunatic but that is literally what made me want to write. The abundance of words made me want to throw out some more at the world.
I was distracted by the fact that I am sitting here, in this quiet room, noises from the world outside coming in through my balcony and my curtains, with books and pencils around me and a piggy bank that says “Savings for London”.
London is my dream and I’m doing every thing possible to make it more of a reality and hence, the little glass jar with the paper cello-taped on it.
What was I doing in this room? Away from the whole world (and ironically sending this post out to the whole world), repeating words of Arabic, and working on the plot of my next book in the recesses of my mind?
My room suddenly felt really small, and not in a bad way. It felt like things outside of where I am were so distant to who I am. I could spend HOURS in my room and not feel bored for a second because everything I need is right here, but if I ever go outside I bring back things that add to my little heaven.
My guidance is here. My praying corner is here. My books are here, and so is my beautiful plant pot and cat.
However, my dreams have tugged away from my little spot to a place so far away. My dream ran away and settled elsewhere and made my whole world feel like everything that belonged in it is a way for me to reach my dream.
Everything I do, or read, or learn needs to bring me closer to where I want to be. That’s the only way we can ever achieve something.
These days I spend a lot of thought on the story I’m writing. I decided some days back that my story will not be the cause of sorrow or heartbreak. But at the same time, I want it to mean something because it means so much to me. After I wrote my first book, back in 2009, my family would often ask me when I’d write and publish the next one. I’d have stories in mind but I never seemed to finish them. I couldn’t finish them.
“I don’t know, maybe sometime soon.”
You know those characters who speak for pages just to eventually explain the purpose of the whole book? They become an element that the writer uses to explain the idea and the gist. You know those characters right?
They’ll never be a part of any story I write.