Dear whosoever reads this,

 
Perhaps my story is as boring as yours—might even be melodramatic. Perhaps we were not meant to live as we had wished. I’m a twenty-one years old walking-hollow-body, too ambitious that I daydream. Of course, I think of things I shouldn’t be thinking of while I’m at this age. Perhaps people at my age are doing drugs, partying, celebrating their birthdays, or driving their cars on the sideways; fuck the law, right? I wasn’t born with a gene that perpetuates excitement for adventure. Instead, I am stuck with an oh-you-should-stay-at-home-and-rest-and-perhaps-pretend-you’re-cool kind of genes. I’m not saying that I abhor me, nor implying that I do love me. I’m in a position where I cannot stand my thoughts yet I cannot live without them. You see, I’m in a tug of war with my own self. I’m not schizophrenic; perhaps a dark, depressing entity is possessing me. Sounds fun. I don’t mind that, as long as it accommodates to my norms. And what norms do I have? I am a silent rebel. I had dogmatic norms before. Every single one of us had dogmatic norms at a certain period of their lives. But you grow up—and if you’re lucky enough to enlighten yourself, something happens—and those dogmatic norms never see light again. What is, then, my raison d’être? For now, I have none. I just happen to exist.

 
Don’t mind me; I question a lot but never do I find soothing answers. It’s what you get for breaking your dogmatic norms. IN YOUR FACE, loser!

 
Now, how shall pour out my wrath? I choose words. And, indeed, words do carry meanings that only those who suffered and still suffer can decode. This suffering is different; I guess we’ve all been there. Words trigger a one of a kind catharsis, and I’m about to release mine, albeit it’s utter bullshit.

 
Life is not what you see in a movie. Life is not the suitable ending you endeavour to see in a movie. Life is way more than just a movie. You see a subjective life, and you can’t just project yourself into it—that is, my friend, if you do have brains, to begin with. Our perception towards life differ, and you don’t want to end up living a life that is subject to a perception different than yours. Bloody hell I must suck at story-telling! Did you just notice the quick, non-faded transition from norms to movies? Don’t mind that, too. Thoughts are boiling in my head, and I can’t help it. Eventually, the confusion—or should I call it instability—of my thoughts only incarnates my dull way of life. A lifeless life. A static life.

 
I’m the kind of people that can go mad over slight things I do not complete. Take, for instance, this messy thingamajig. I wasn’t supposed to write this at the first place. I was supposed to write an essay—not just any essay, an academic one. However, and due to several circumstances—and that is just an excuse—I urged myself to vomit words, shape them, and have them constructed in meaningful sentences. Let me tell you this: I write because I feel safe and secure; nevertheless, when I don’t (I can’t tell that I feel less secure) I feel a guilt hovering over my shoulders, whispering poisoned thoughts, that I am a failure, that my dreams are not to be followed, that I dream BIG yet work less. True, that’s accurate, dear damn voice. It is true that I do not work hard. It is true that I dream big. There’s no shame at it. De facto, the only shameful thing is your vilely unsupportive, raucous voice. Nonetheless, you are a necessity. Had you never existed, I would not have known what virtue is. Poetic justice is due to happen.
I hit the threshold I was supposed to reach writing the other essay, but never mind. Shit happens, and I’m glad that it does happen.

 
This thingamajig turned out to be way formal than I intended it to be—in terms of structure—regardless of the informal, effed up language I used.

 
Anyway, I have laid the guilt to waste and come to terms with myself. Isn’t it just the perfect poetic justice?
Thanks for your attention.

 

 

 

Sincerely,

 

Youssef Hamdi

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