nonexistent reads

The preteen me, on average, probably finished more books a year than the adult me does. I suppose it is a similar issue some others face, growing up an avid reader then managing to grow out of it. Books by Jacqueline Wilson were my favorite, because there was something so real about them, and although they were meant for a younger audience, they never completely treated their readers like kids. My life as an Arab child was far different from all of the main characters’ of Wilson’s books, but they still were so human, and I remember feeling that she didn’t really shy away from exploring the complexity of emotions and presenting them to children.

I grew, and the number of books I read on a yearly basis took a nosedive (let’s keep comics out of this now, shall we?) I only remember really enjoying murder mysteries during my teenage years, and even those I read very, very few of.

I grew, and tried to get back into reading. My cousin, (shoutout: theyoungdeer) a very, very active reader, especially compared to yours truly, has been lending me all of her favorite picks, and I enjoyed a number of them. But I still haven’t found a book that I’d give 5/5, and I wonder if I ever will.

For the most part, I try to stay away from the angry, all-caps reviews on Goodreads beforehand because I’d rather develop my own opinion (which eventually becomes that angry, all-caps review). I’m thoroughly disappointed by too many new releases, and although I struggle with plots and don’t even consider myself a writer in the first place, I’ve been finding most of my reads mundane and butchered and unworthy of the praise that I find on the back of their covers. Call me a pretentious prick, I deserve it.

But the books I love are very particular, I want them to unravel, to build up and then ease down, to entangle every word put into them and grow complex, then wrap up and conclude like a gift; I like uncomfortably real characters and complicated plots and simple, beautiful writing that flows and takes the reader along. I miss having a book that I don’t want to put down.


ties worn by time

I’m missing a bond, but I don’t really know whether I miss the person I had that bond with. She’s grown into someone I’m not compatible with, and I’ve done the same. Faulting her for it seems unfair, but there’s pain that lingers after severing ties that you can’t seem to build with anyone else.

I feel it more keenly than I would like to admit, especially considering that I’ve always been that indifferent one. She was only a friend, but it was odd how well we got along, how we’d the same sense of humour, peculiar as it was, and how we connected one level deeper than how we both usually did.

That friendship didn’t vanish into thin air, but we both watched it dissolve and fray. I tried to save it, and maybe, so did she. We’re no more than two distant people now, who go months and months on end without hearing of each other.

I’ve tried putting it into words several times, but I’d always been too worried about wronging her. Please read this unbiased, we both had our shares of being the bigger person and not. I’m still nervous about it, and there are so many things I want to say but I don’t even know if I want to put this up. But it happens, people do change, they grow, and they show you pieces of themselves that you might not like, and they could grow distant then connect to others, and as long as there’s no one who stays behind wallowing away in bitterness, it should be okay.

It still saddens me, though, and I wonder if it does the same to her. Perhaps not, but who am I to say. I’ve reconnected to many other friends, but I feel so severely secondary to all of them, and while they’re precious to me, it seems like that bond was a one-time thing.

I know I’m a pretty difficult person to get along with; I’m harsh and stubborn, I don’t have a redeeming quality that would make others want to befriend me, and I’ve got too much pride for anyone’s good. I think I also blame it on age, this inability to become something a bit more than “just another friend,” and there’s no bitterness in me, but it seeps in at times, some exhausted form of being tired of myself, too much to change. I don’t want to change, there’s no bitterness in me.

Cars at 6 a.m.

It’s been a month since my last post. Wow, I would forget how to write at this rate.

On Monday the 4th, I started my new job. It’s embarrassing, but I was so nervous that I woke up before 4 a.m.

Once I left home, I became certain that there’s something magical about the air at 6 in the morning. I’d missed it, that strange feeling of new breath, and I hadn’t realized it until I met it again. There is that serenity around the languid pace of cars passing by, preparing for a hectic day ahead. A whole life had been my room’s window away from me, a life that I had to take a break from, one which I truly missed.

As a person who feels at ease with schedules and routines, I appreciate having to wake up early and going to work. It is far too soon to determine what I feel about this particular job, but I’ve yet to have that dreadful realization of having made a wrong decision. People who know me asked, and my description received, “It suits you.” I sure hope it does.

I often use the phrase “bottom of the food chain,” to describe someone who is completely new to a situation, and yes, I do extend the analogy (The marine food chain, to be specific). In my new workplace, sharks and whales are incredibly kind, and everyone around me is so knowledgeable. Instead of discouragement, I feel like there’s so much room to grow.  I am intimidated but looking forward to upgrading to a secondary consumer.

On other news, I got accepted as a columnist in Sail E-magazine! My first article will be published in the October issue, as far as I know. To keep up with that role, I remade my reading/writing twitter and hopefully, will not abandon it anymore. I’ll look forward to seeing you over there 🙂