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| 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.
