The image of every skinny, old man with a face ridden with wrinkles and protruding cheekbones is now reminiscent of my father, which is becoming quite disturbing. I am looking at the driver of the bus through the rear-view mirror, and although his facial features don't really resemble those of my father's, I can't help but remember my dad's collapsible face during the last days of his unfair struggle against that unconquerable malady.
The poor driver is obviously not in a condition that allows him to be doing such an arduous job. I can feel the coldness of his barely skinned skeleton from his body language although it's not really that cold. I can also tell from his sunken, tearful, red eyes that he's either fatigued or suffering from a severe lack of sleep.
Life is merciless and there's no grand design, or whatever other terms people use to refer to providence; that utterly random sequence of purposeless -yet inevitable- events.
On another note, I can't really wait to reach home. There are way too many things in my mind I'm thinking of simultaneously, and that's part of the daily suffering people with compulsively creative minds go through. I started composing a new musical piece last year and it should be completed within this week. It's my first composition in more than six years and my fifth in total. I also need to finish the fifth chapter of the novel within the upcoming two weeks.
For less artistic purposes, I'm eager to go home to eat something. I've been having that weird nutritional condition lately that is really annoying. I feel full at one moment, and then twenty minutes later I feel too fucking hungry!
Traffic jams are becoming an integral part of the not-so-lovely driving experience in Amman. Jordanian drivers are also becoming more irresponsible than ever. A good example is the reckless motherfucker to my right -- he is squeezing through the adjoining cars, doing unfeasible stunts to pass through the traffic lights before they turn red.
I'm planning to buy a car by the end of April. Yeah, finally! Although there should not be one single negative thing about having your own car, I'll sincerely miss these diary entries, especially the ultra-personal ones that I don't publish. Or maybe I can just change the title to "Diary of a Lone Driver" and turn the written entries into recorded audio clips! Nah, that won't work. I'm a writer, period.
I can smell the invasive odor of the smoke emanating from the factories, which means we have reached Zarqa!
It's time to fuck off, I guess!
