The Only Way

collection-of-bound-essays-piled-high

Once again I find myself in a situation which I do not know how to deal with and once again the only tool I have got in my hands is writing.

I have probably mentioned this before but I am one of those people who don’t believe in sharing the details of one’s life, especially the negative ones, online and the only reason for that is that I don’t believe anybody cares. Or maybe they do, for about 3 minutes: the time it takes to write a seemingly compassionate comment or send out a heart (reference: common sense) but after that, everyone moves on.

Hence, the reason that I sometimes write about the things that bother me is, again, that I consider it to be the only tool I have for the search of inner peace. I am writing into the void. Hello. Thank you for listening. 

Writing has always been something dear to my heart, ever since I got that diary with the picture of horses running on a beach which came with a tiny lock so that I’d live with the childish belief that nobody could have the access to the secrets of my 7-year old heart even though the key was a tiny tin stick that was the same as the ones in each of my 3 sisters’ diaries.

What a beautiful illusion. 

Pouring my heart out on paper and breaking the pencil tip out of frustration or excitement or whatever feeling that would take over my heart at whichever point in my life.

Pages smudged with tears and others torn out because some things can’t exist in physical words anywhere and some things are better to be forgotten.

Writing has always helped me avoid facing questions like “Who am I?” or “What do I want?” without an answer.

It’s 2020 and I’ve got exactly 8 relatively thick volumes of diaries.

Every now and then, I randomly pick up one of them and carefully go through the pages and remind myself of where I used to be and where I am at now. Sometimes it makes me sadder but sometimes it gives me strength. In all cases, I’d never get rid of them because I am my past and I am my present.

If I regret something about my diaries, it is not having written more. The small gaps I sometimes find between the pages make my heart sink. Maybe whatever I was going through that made me unable to pick up the pen would have been exactly what I needed to hear now? Or maybe those unwritten words would have given me clarity as to what is my next step in the present? Now I’ll never know.

Yesterday I spent a good third of the night, alone, staring into the void, hoping and praying that just this time, I could cheat and find a quick solution to my problems. Maybe something between the lines of my past, a mask to wear, words handed to me that I didn’t have, a sudden change of heart in someone else so it wouldn’t have to be me. Anything. 

I was trembling at the thought that yet again, there was no escape, that, again, I had to rise up and be someone stronger, someone I thought I couldn’t be to row through the murky waters, onto the other side.

Let me cheat just this once… Please. 

I muttered those last words before falling asleep and woke up with the dreadful clarity that I’d been wishing for the moon to be handed right into my arms.

There’s only one way: to climb.

And that’s exactly what I see on the hundreds of pages of my diaries.

I think Miley Cyrus put it just right in 2009:

“There’s always gonna be another mountain
I’m always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I’m gonna have to lose
Ain’t about how fast I get there
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s the climb

The struggles I’m facing
The chances I’m taking
Sometimes might knock me down but
No I’m not breaking
I may not know it
But these are the moments that
I’m going to remember most yeah
Just got to keep going
And I
I gotta be strong.” 

-Halima

 

 

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