Enforced Creativity

I remember so many random facts and incidents from my life and others’ which I’d witnessed or heard of.. It seems such a waste if I just kept them in a vault in my head. I shall post them on here and hope that, one day, I would be able to organise them and give them some semblance.. Perhaps I’ll even sketch a faint pattern of my thoughts.. What do I most think about? Whatever it is, I’m making it my aim to write about it here..

When I was 15, I was aimlessly staring at one of the mismatching bookcases that adorned our living room.. My eyes were drawn to a book in the lower shelves.. I knelt and tilted my head to the right so I could make out what it was that was tugging at my eyesight.. The cover was a 1950s shade of green.. It was a dense hardback that looked and felt like it had been read a lot.. Letters Home: Correspondence 1950-1963 by Sylvia Plath. The name sounded familiar.. I would not go so far as to say that it was an epiphany, but something came on to me and I wouldn’t put the book down. I sat on the sofa and proceeded to read.. As I found out about the author, it dawned on me that a poem of hers, Mirror, is included in the poetry anthology I was studying in English.. I was touched by her sincerity and vulnerability, though I don’t think she was conventionally vulnerable.. She wasn’t at risk of some external danger. Her world, like mine, seemed dotted with signposts, all directing her towards an impenetrable dead-end. My posthumous crush’s style was spellbinding.. I would pause and sigh at the improbability of my ever possessing skill and spirit like she did.. The authorial voice, a literary term I would later learn, was unapologetic but equally unnerved.. Her vulnerability wasn’t weakness, it was self-doubt. The question of whether or not her talent was real busied her already ceaseless mind and it pushed her senses to the precipice and, eventually, off it.

What triggered this impromptu mini essay is that in one of the letters ‘Sivvy’ wrote to her mother, she mentioned with some fervour that she would polish her work by writing 1500 words a day.. Maybe this is the kind of regime I should enforce to yield more writing.. The experience of living shouldn’t have to end before it is documented.. The more I write now, the more I can capture.. It would bring me endless satisfaction and, with some luck, it wouldn’t cost me my dear followers.. Even if it did, at least I’d have written instead of just wanting to write..

Although this post comes up to merely a third of my target word count, it’s a start. With time, my writings shall be more regular, extensive and generally better, I would hope.

A day from your adulthood..

My life changed on January 14th 2007. Months later, and days before my 19^th birthday, my friend and namesake accompanied me to a hospital appointment during which I were to be given the final word on the tests I’d had over the previous number of months.
 

As we sat in front of the bald, bespectacled doctor whilst he shuffled through a thick file that contained my medical history, I looked at Mehdi and gave an awkward, expectant smile.

"All the tests have confirmed what we’d been expecting, I’m afraid."

He turned his computer monitor towards us and pointed to a picture of me that I’d never seen before.

"You can see that there are lesions here, here and here."

 As he said this, I was momentarily distracted by curiosity. My brain looks like this? And it has lesions? What the hell are lesions anyways?

 "I’m sorry to have to inform you that you have Multiple Sclerosis.”

 As though he’d rehearsed what he would do next, Mehdi grinned, shook my hand and said: "Congratulations, Mehdi.. you have an official illness!”

 We both chuckled and looked at the doctor who appeared to be slightly puzzled by our less-than-horrified reaction to the life-changing news he’d imparted.

 I had been expecting the diagnosis to be exactly what it was. Within minutes of being seen by the neurologist who first examined me almost five months prior to that day, I was informed that my symptoms are very similar to those of MS sufferers. I wasn’t shocked or upset. It was just a truth I had to come to terms with.

Though it has been almost seven years since I was diagnosed, sometimes I forget that I have a disease that’s slowly and unpredictably gnawing at my central nervous system. It has taken a significant yet hard-to-detect toll on my physical and mental abilities. I find it difficult to process slabs of information the way most people do without even trying. My brain’s wiring has been mixed up a little and I find myself pronouncing a sentence differently to how I had planned to. Eventhough the onlooker may fail to spot such linguistic lapses, I always do. If it upsets me, I pick myself up and plough on. I have no choice but to.

 Ever since I felt the very first symptoms -tingling/numbness from my chest all the way down to my toes; reduced balance, as well as a host of other strange and sporadic episodes- I’ve tried to remind myself of the importance of appreciating what I have. I had never envied the effortlessness with which people walk until I found it to be slightly -at times extremely- laborious to do so. I’ve had to adapt to living life whilst carrying a hidden hindrance that hardly anyone seems capable of understanding. 

I’m not bitter. I don’t feel like I’ve been unfairly treated by God. I don’t wish I had it any differently. In fact, I’m deeply grateful to have had the opportunity to get a fleeting glimpse of what life is really about. Disheartening though they can be, my countless hospital visits serve to remind me of the futility of materialistic possessions and wafer-thin ambitions. I stopped dreaming of cars, careers and a high credit rating, and have opted to pursue personal peace, happiness and fulfillment instead.

 My life changed on January 14th 2007.. for the better..

Good luck.. Good riddance..

Many have been the nights when I stayed awake till the early hours of the morning, mulling over the opportunities I'd missed and the abundant satisfaction I would've basked in had I exerted a little bit more effort.. If only I'd been braver, wiser, less concerned about the importance of what isn't important. I distinctly recall one such night during which I looked into the mirror for fairly long period of time, listening to the sound of my scornful, youthful voice and examining my not-so-youthful features. I berated myself for not doing enough and made a vow to turn things around. The reason behind my ceaseless self-flagellating remains a mystery.. one I'm not particularly interested in unravelling so much as I'm intent on abandoning. The reason: I'm exhausted.

I'm not a failure. Yet. It's completely within my reach to be the man I've wanted to be since I was a young, starry-eyed Harry Potter lookalike. Numerous people I've known over the years have somehow made me believe that failure is an inevitable outcome considering who I am and what I'm like. This has translated itself into how I perceive myself, my abilities and my chances of success and, ultimately, happiness. I’m not pinning all the blame for my shortcomings on others, though. I take full responsibility for being a procrastinator par excellence. Though my excuses are rife, they are genuine. I'm not merely lazy. Sometimes I'm crippled by my own thoughts and feelings towards myself and others. My mind is fraught with suspicions. These suspicions, coupled with the debilitating sense of inadequacy, make it impossible for me to get anything done. Here, I'm referring to writing. Outstanding assignments have been the hallmark of my time at university. Whilst contemporaries have gone on to complete two degrees, and despite friends' and relatives' unwavering support, I'm yet to graduate. Held back by a single essay, I feel trapped in an endless cycle of demands, expectations and the dreaded, daunting prospect of not making it. So much potential, so little achieved.

Yesterday was my 25th birthday. If I were to blow it out of proportion, I'd say it's my first real milestone. But it's not. There have been many milestones which I ought to cherish and appreciate more than a single day plucked out of a calendar – the result of sheer chance.

I should take pride in my skills and have faith in my abilities. Important as it may be, my degree does not define me. Neither does my job, nor my appearance. My single most important achievement to date is my daughter whose development and infectious smile fills me with unbounded happiness, a kind of happiness equalled by nothing. I will write more regularly. I will complete this one essay over the next few days so I can stand on a graduation podium with her. It will be for her.

As for those who I once loved and am no longer in such awe of, I am grateful for everything you represent. You’re a bitter lesson I hope to have learned: I will only pour my love at the feet of people who’ve stirred my soul. My hair is receding, my eyes are becoming panda-like, but I am more clear-headed than I have ever been in your presence. I wish you all that’s good in life. Just don’t bother enquiring as to how I’m faring. I’m better because I don’t care about you anymore.

Good luck.. Good riddance..

Train of thoughts..

Everyone is going to great lengths to examine everyone else without raising the slightest suspicion. Eye-contact is almost sinful, and blood surges to your face if your canvassing of the carriage is detected. A man sporting a black baseball hat sits opposite me and is completely occupied reading the paper which I’d picked up and left behind earlier. A beautiful young woman with an aura of unshakable confidence and determination to appear in control sits next to me. Her movement is minimal and I am a little self-conscious as to what she thinks of me if she spotted me inspecting fellow commuters: A pervert, a stoner, or a guy with a book and an inquisitive eye.. I could be any.

I want to be home eating and celebrating my 25th birthday. This inauspicious occasion should be a turning point in my life. Whether it is or isn’t is something only I can decide. I’ve stopped smoking nearly 2 months ago. I want to make the next bulk of my life a more positive one. Less wallowing, more writing.

The train has reached its destination..

Shortchanged

Every so often I declare to myself that I have enough close friends who understand my hopes, fears and anxieties. Not many people find me funny or interesting; nor am I amused, entertained or excited by the company of a great number of humans.

My 25th birthday is less than a month away and I'm already tempted to look back with a sneering, disdainful eye over the bygone quarter of a century - but that's counterproductive. Rather than doing that, I want to make my ominous birthday a cut-off point.

All those years I had put others before myself naively believing that my very own understanding of human nature would prevail and my near-obsessional doting would eventually pay off.

I’m not interested in forging strong bonds with more people because they’re bound to let me down and not reciprocate the same level of loyalty and commitment that I so willingly put forward from the moment I begin to like them.. and yet, my stubborn heart doesn’t listen to my supposedly sound rational mind’s advice: you have enough, don’t wear your heart on your sleeve for more people.. Hardly anyone cares as much as you do.

Most people will never meet my expectations because I foolishly think that my liking them means they like me just as much. I always feel shortchanged and often question myself for not seeing past their outer, shiny shells.

Most will disappoint, but those who don't will make it a price worth paying. What I've got in return from some has been infinite, invaluable and immeasurable happiness. It is because of the latter that I haven't given up entirely on the human race and am yet to seek refuge in the wilderness where I often picture myself living idyllically.

People will forever shortchange me, but that's no problem. As long as it's anticipated, it won't hurt as much. The lesson I hope to have learned is that I should always smile and be true to myself for the duration of my excursion in this desolate, fascinating and endlessly absorbing planet. Otherwise, I'd be cheating myself of the chance to be happy - and nothing matches the debilitating sadness of being disappointed in oneself.

A life not lived

A good friend of mine suggested that I write about ten new things that have happened in my life. I will oblige soon but, firstly, I will talk about an entirely new outlook on life and living that I want to adopt. Provided the world doesn’t end in 2012, I hope this year will be one that marks a significant turn for me.

I had previously thought that my life would be perfect if it took the form of what was deemed ‘successful’. As a child, I had the naive conviction that I will grow up to be a wealthy, religious, accomplished man. Luckily, the past few years have helped me abandon this endeavour and seek, instead, to simply be happy.

It was an important realisation: my life is my very own storyline and not a canvas which others paint on their ideals and values. Anything else and I’ll be doomed to mediocrity and banality. This is despite incessant reminders I see everywhere that being alternative is cause for concern. Contemplating new ideas and ways of life is tantamount to swimming in shark-infested waters and is best avoided. But I think that’s a very boring way of living. If I were to live solely to live up to people’s admittedly-low expectations, it will be a life wasted, a life not lived. As Roger Greenberg said, “Life is wasted on people.” Of course, not all life and, indeed, not all people.

A lot of folk I know will read this (or not - I’ve only got 5 followers) and think I have gone wayward. I anticipate a mixture of reactions: sneer, surprise, camaraderie and most probably indifference. Nevertheless, I will have published it and put it out for the world to see. To me, that’s what matters most.

Unmasking the mask

The world has witnessed remarkable changes over the past few months. As Mahmoud Darwish said, "the mask has fallen off the mask." No longer does the world order matter as there simply is no "world order". I, for one, have ceased to believe things and people I once held close to my heart. Hasan Nasrallah is a prime example and the others I held in similar regard. Today, everything is prone to drastic revision, and we, the observing masses, can only gawp in wonder.

Unlike Iraq, there has been little or no need for armed intervention by the international community which has ostensibly helped put these corrupt systems of governance in place. Tunisians, Egyptians, Libyans and Syrians have enough guts to stand bare-chested in front of live rounds of ammunition to guarantee that their children do not suffer as they did. Bahrainis, on the other hand, are enduring a doubly-difficult uprising because the world's lenses have been diverted for overtly political motives. Nevertheless, they are in full knowledge that their struggle hasn't gone unnoticed. A Kuwaiti journalist gave Arab apologists a deserved dressing-down and a lot of people I know ought to listen to what he had to say with regards to the matter.

The toppling of dicatorial regimes that have ruled for decades signalled the resurgence of not popular opinion but popular demand. Whilst religion and ideology took a back-seat, it was pure anger that brought down legions of tanks, machine-guns and sniper-rifles. The battle rages on and I can only hope that the vast loss of life bears fruit to democratic, multi-dimensional and free-thinking societies.

Personally, recent events have helped me develop a less-diplomatic approach to my life. If something seems wrong, I will have no fear in voicing my objection. I may be on the verge of completing my drawn-out degree but it's much more than the certificate that I will cherish: the chance to explore ideas and meet dissimilar people has been invaluable. More than anything, I feel indebted to the heroes that have braved the danger to speak their minds and reclaim their crushed spirits. Chief amongst them is a frustrated grocery seller who goes by the name of Mohammed Al-Bouazzizi.

The drawback to all that has happened, I suppose, is that I've become so desensitised to human misery that the sight of a head cracked open or a body split in half does nothing but make me scroll down the page or fast forward the clip. In my long-gone teenage years I used to visit a website that published pictures of unspeakable horror (www.rotten.com for those interested). The sheer shock that engulfed me then was almost a kick and I enjoyed the rush of adrenaline. Admittedly, it is a twisted fancy, but I was a teenager. Now, I, along with anyone that has seen the footage, know what the inside of a human head looks like and what form the body takes when a missile flies right through it. Ignorance was blissful but now I know - for I see it on a daily basis.

Finally, in fifty years time, I want my grandchildren to interrupt my stories to say: "Jiddo, man.. you lived in one messed up world!"