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Dark and Twisted

I come to realize that I have isolated myself for the most part of my life. At first emotionally while growing up, probably because of fear of being seen weak, or probably because I simply could not open up to people because of a matter of trust. But over the years I have felt myself growing and maturing. But then I ask myself, am I really mature? Am I really grown up? If I am, how do I know it? When does one get there? Is it when you get rid of your impulsiveness and rashness? Is it when you become independent? I mean who set the rules about maturity and growing up?

In the few months that have passed I have almost literally felt myself growing out of my own skin. If I look back at last year I can see distinctly what a child I was, and I am sure in years to come I will read this and think of how childish I am being now. It’s a cycle really, you grow up, then you grow up some more, and you wonder if it will ever stop. But this time, I think it’s happening faster than I have ever wanted it to. Soon I will be expected to go back to Beirut, and I am expected to fall back into the frame I have been living in, and I don’t see myself there. I don’t see myself going out, getting drunk, and going to work hungover. I don’t see myself being the same person my family and friends have said goodbye to at the airport.

I have grown older, and I still feel like I isolate myself emotionally and detach myself from the people around me. And a conclusion I have reached lately is that probably this is the reason why I always fall in love with people who seem unavailable or unattainable. Sometimes, for like a few seconds I envy those simple religious morons who know nothing of life but to follow some rules that they believe will be their salvation. But the scary part is that when I really think about it, although it causes a lot of pain, I love how twisted and dark I feel myself sometimes. I have diagnosed myself as an emotional masochist. The more I hurt emotionally, the more I love it.

 

 

 
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Posted by on March 19, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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of having, or not having choices

Choices. When I studied Robert Frost at university, I was really into the whole existential ideas he proposed. I read Sartre who said: Man is doomed to be free. And let me say, I was kind of brushing the whole thing as bullcrap at the time. And yet, I remembered that quote, and I kept reminding myself of it for some reason.

Choices.

There comes a point in your life where you realize that everything you’ve dismissed proves to be factual. These could be fears, feelings for someone you never realized you really loved, or a simple quote you read in your university book.

Choices.

As I toss and turn in my bed trying to figure out some escape from the dilemma I’m living in, I keep pondering over these different tracks I have ahead of me, which to choose? Do I take the Road Not Taken like Frost did? Or do I go with my gut? But what is my gut saying?

Choices.

There was a time in our lives where choosing chocolate over biscuit was the toughest decision we ever had to make. We grow up to fall into the dilemma about what to wear, or how to cut our hair. We grow a bit more and bigger questions face us. Questions that would affect our whole lives. And at the slightest hints of hesitation, we turn our heads to the sky and curse our doomed freedom.

Choices.

I look back in forth, weighing all the possibilities, pros and cons. And hate this position I feel I am stuck in.  I curse my luck over my inability to make a decision, and wish for a way out of this. But then it hits me. We spend our adult lives fumbling and stumbling, just like the little kids we once were, trying to make the “right” choice. We hate ourselves, and some of us curse the skies for signs about what to decide. We ask our friends for advice, or whatever God we worship, to help us and guide us to the right path, forgetting the bigger issue, and the bigger problems of others, who by fate or circumstance, do not happen to have a choice. The athlete who does not have a choice to run because he lost his leg. The teenager who cannot choose to study because he has to feed his family after his father’s death. The children who cannot choose to eat because they were born in a starving village… And yet, we go on with our lives, cursing the drama of being unable to choose our major at university, or what job offer to take even though both present themselves as equally beneficial and both would lead us to a path we’ve always longed for.

I shut my eyes, thankful to have the privilege of being confused about making a choice, and I sleep.

 
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Posted by on March 2, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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on the story goes…

I woke up this morning to hear devastating news. Legendary icon Whitney Houston, to whose music I had grown, had passed away. My eyes were in tears as I walked inside the classroom to careless students whose teenage recklessness would not understand the tragedy.

I told them of the news I had read online in my office before entering the class, but to my dismay, they did not recognize the name, and started asking who Whitney Houston was. I could not believe my ears.

After a succession of three classes back to back, I went outside for a cigarette where I started thinking about my students’ reaction to what seemed to me like and end of many things. Then I start thinking about how my life is changing. Just yesterday I was that teenager who could not give a toss about some singer dying. Just yesterday I was that kid in school who could not relate to his teacher’s grief; who graduated high school, discovered a completely new world, relationships and genuine friendships, discovered sex and alcohol without any thought of responsibility. Just yesterday I was the child of the new generation, I was young. Why do I suddenly feel older, and wiser with the mere death of a singer whom I’d listened to and admired my whole life? Am I now, suddenly, out of the territory of this rising generation, do I have to make way for the fresh, new faces of my students and others of their age?

All I know is that now, I am no longer the teenage student. Now, I am the teacher.

My life has been a manifold story of now seemingly meaningless laughter, and teenage drama. Filled with the insecurities and cockiness of a boy who was coming of age. A story of many chapters that seem endless with diversity, a story that I can easily write with infinite words. I know for a fact that today’s realization and pondering are just another closing of yet another chapter. And so I decided to write. I decided to start my memoirs, to remind myself that even though I am getting older, I will always be young through my words, and no matter how many chapters of my life come to an end, be they sad or filled with joy, this manifold story will never see its end, because try as I may to start over, or put an end to it, on go the days, and on goes the story…

 
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Posted by on February 12, 2012 in Uncategorized