A Lost Man's Memoirs

Beirut, 30 December 2013

How many watersheds are there in the average lifespan of a typical human being? Growing up, I thought I would go through a couple of life-altering events. But now, I am starting to believe they could be up to 10–15 events. A watershed, however, does not necessarily entail a complete redefinition of one's embraced mindset and envisaged road map in their entirety. There will always be leftovers from the previously adopted convictions. I firmly believe that life is a process in which we incessantly customize ourselves to function smoothly throughout the different stages of living. This customization includes reinforcing many ancient components within the character, abandoning others, and introducing a few new ones.

This year, I am going through a new watershed that should result in a confusing mixture of positive and negative complications, as I am witnessing the demise of too many immanent components and the rise of too many unfamiliar ones. These events are unavoidable; however, they're manageable—irrespective of the saddening fact that I personally never manage to manage the manageable! Hence I always worry about the final product, the new redefined me, resulting from such turning points.

When a milestone makes me turn into a humanized thing I despise, I try to relive the older selves I have once been. This is achievable by holding on to dozens of dust-filled memories neatly tucked under the bed within my subconscious. By now, you should have realized that I am already rummaging through dusty memoirs to distract myself and redirect it towards a lesser undesired outcome. The picture above, for instance, always reminds me of a euphoric moment I wish I can have again. I always look at this photo—along with a few others taken on the same day, the day before, or the day after but I cannot share them—if I want to revisit a period of time in which I put the whole world on hold and experienced unfeigned joy and raw carelessness about everything about me.

I have always envied the way she loved life and smiled right in front of hardships, and I fucking miss Beirut so much!

A New Year, a Rekindled Obsession

Me in 2014, in Sweileh, writing the third chapter of my novel "No Ravens Fly in Heaven" 

2019 has been an exhausting year—emotionally, physically, morally, and materially—in its entirety, but the first quarter of it has been the harshest three-month period in this past decade. However, that overpowering hardship I went through was quite informative in terms of enlightening me about the mediocre limits of my composure. This past year has taught me, in the most inconsiderate manner possible, that one knows himself or herself the most at times of unforeseen agony.

It all started in mid-January when someone very dear to me went to jail. The nonstop weekly visits I paid him, until the day of his release in May, resulted in immense pain from which I am still recovering. I cannot deny, though, that I have learned a lot during that period. For instance, I now know that all lawyers are liars. Most of them are even much worse than their law-breaching clients. Within a lawyer's mindset, justice is just an accessory; financial profit is the only power that drives these people. If hell exists, and I hope it does, lawyers would be the ones whose bodies are relied upon to stoke the fire and keep it raging indefinitely.

The end of the year was as depleting as its start. My mother got admitted into the hospital last month, suffering from a deficiency of blood platelets. Again, the experience was truly edifying; I learned that humans can be an unstoppable force of benevolence as I witnessed firsthand acquaintances and strangers alike rushing to donate blood for my mother.

I still vividly recall plenty of unpleasant, as well as pleasant, events that took place in 2019, but I don't want to be loquacious about a year I should forget already. It's all about 2020 now.

Unlike past years, this time I do have goals for the new year. And I promise to reread this blog entry at the end of this year to evaluate my progress. As an inexperienced goal setter, I won't be too wild and will settle for three goals only.

My first goal is to write every day. I have been quite lazy this past year when it comes to exposing my soul, heart, and mind with my relentlessly expressive words. By writing daily I mean writing anything: a random two-line notion on my cellphone, a full blog entry, a Facebook post, or a single sentence for my novel. Speaking of which, I know I should have finished my novel a long time ago, but I have been preoccupied with too many mundane matters in my recent years. Another reason for this delay—or perhaps the only valid reason, but I just keep denying it—is the lack of a muse, especially after I had a powerful one when I first started writing this book five or six years ago. The good news is, if I am not mistaken or merely being delusional, I have found a new muse. But this one is different, and the situation that brings the two of us together is hazardously complex. I need to be extraordinarily cautious with my approach.

My second goal is to try something completely new. Yes, it is as simple as that. I told you I am inexperienced when it comes to setting goals, didn't I? Somehow, I have developed an unhealthy craving for new experiences. I want to experience something like my first unsuccessful attempt to ride a bicycle in the early nineties when my dad was rooting for me while everyone else on the street was laughing their fucking asses off; or the first time I ever composed a piano piece and felt immortal; or my first day at work as an elementary school teacher who was scared to death; or the first song I wrote, rewrote, recorded, and then quickly deleted it forever; or maybe something radically redefining such as fatherhood.

My third and last goal for the year 2020 is to be a little bit selfish. I know this sounds…selfish? But I have been selfless for more than 34 years already. I have neglected my aspirations for too long for the sake of others; it's time to devote myself to myself.

I promise that I'll be obsessed with sketching my own fate.

Here I come, and I'll keep coming.