15/06/2022

I have been trying for a while to craft a little piece. I assembled words and ideas and prompts and instrumentals and just.. nothing. Not one line. I can't write anymore, not as I thought I could or not as people surrounding me praised me for the promise of what I might. I am no longer genuine. And I did ponder about it, I truly tried to find the root.

At first, I blamed "I". Every sentence started with an I and sentenced my whole inner monologue into a trepidation from within and without.

Then, I just surrendered it to my age. I am getting inevitably older. I am old and most likely unable to create no longer. Everything within me is just a ceaseless reiteration of all I can ever give. A continuous motion of the same ideas again and again trapped each time under the shadow of a new persona in hope of recasting it as new.

As much as the age excuse seemed plausible, it was not the only one. I may be inevitably older but I am also invariably lost. I dare not say that this loss qualifies for finding a voice or polishing a pen or seeking something to say, then the will then the words to. Perhaps, at times, they did intertwine or I might have confused one for another. But I most certainly do not any more. I know that so many before me have trodden this road, and I've seen the ending. A grandiloquent journal in a drawer. A folder surrounded by other folders of the never to be read antiquarian files.

This loss is not a loss of a voice but, the sound of it. I am no longer genuine, have I not said? I don't know which language is to be spoken. I am no longer genuine since I lost my Arabic and since I lost French. I am often believed when I say that I read far more in French than in English and that I wrote better in Arabic than in any another. I wrote better at the age of Twelve than at Twenty Four. Although I find it as wistful as disconcerting, it irks me most to realize so late that I actually never had my Arabic.

By the end, all in all and despite it all, the sound of my voice is scarred. I must sit far too long to craft a little piece, to trigger then to quickly discard. I am waiting. I spent half a lifelong waiting. I guess that if I am good at something, it is waiting. Yet, it feels like every time I sit and wait, I am saying goodbye. A far too cruel and too long of a goodbye. And the only pieces left that could be found of me, are those crying my memory.