If only someone had listened

For many years, I have tried and failed to keep a blog. I was writing in notebooks, pieces of paper, sketchbooks, on my phone or online. But I had never made it a habit to write on a schedule, for a purpose.
I’m not a super organized person, but I know where everything is, most of the time. Organization and scheduling come easy to me though, but keeping up with it is the problem. 

I have a vision of what I need to write, or in other words, to be read by another. But once I start I get a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach and my voice in my head say: 

“What’s the point anyway?”

Have I become a pessimistic nihilist finally? And with time will slowly turn into a grumpy old witch with dry long gray hair and dirty nails, telling people that nothing matters but what lies within their hearts, if they -you know, have any.

Since my early childhood I noticed that I always had an opinion about something. I also noticed that I don't like to admit that I was wrong. Ever. This has led to many mishaps and miscalculated decisions on my part. Although I can’t say that my life was horrible or intolerable, at the time it all seemed darker than it does now. Sure I can reread the past and rewrite my memories in light of my self-proclaimed wisdom, but let’s for the sake of gratitude to my old self, delve into those old dusty feelings and the way everything was supposed to be.

If I needed to summarize everything in one sentence it’ll be that I have never felt entitled to anything. Life was harsh like that. No missing limbs or parents. Just the struggle that is everyday life. And I was a dreamer too. Imagine that! To be a young seed of an artist, stocking up on depression, anxiety and an enormous self doubt, to be extra-useful later on. Even though it wasn’t all on me, I still consider it a choice. 

Weakness, sensitivity, fragility, shyness, self-doubt, hesitation, day-dreaming and much, much more, were all mashed up into the volatile being that I was. Maybe I still am, but at least I’m trying to be awake, aware and alive. 

I’ve always wanted to write. I tried too. I started a diary when I was a pre-teen. My mother announced that she had read it, and proceeded to give me her feedback, and I never wrote again. At least not in anything that can be found and, harrowingly, read. 

There and then, I began the lifelong hobby of quitting before the end. 

That takes us back to blogging. I had many blogs that didn’t pass the test of time, like jobs, friends, interests, and habits, all had perished before they flourished.

Every time, I suggest to myself that I will accomplish something this time. And I believed. Over and over. It’s my curse I guess.

This time, of course, is different. 

…………..

M
Maadi
4,23