An excerpt from my 2016 Journal

                                   

   

                                           An excerpt from a journal I wrote back in 2016!

Foreward:

as of the time I am writing this, I am nearly 22 years old, away by two months to become. I do not wish to publish this book during my life, I'd rather like it to be published after my death. As long as I am still alive, I will add to the book. And by far, this book is for the property of the entire world. I will not dedicate it to anyone, because I am dedicating it to everyone.

Special Note:

This book has no chapters, only pages and words.

The ideas and notions expressed are subjective. It is wonderful to read about other people's perception of what it is to be concious in and about this universe; and everything that entails it. Feel free not to follow, not to continue, but most of all, feel free to understand, and accept.

Let's celebrate our existence, 

For it matters that here we are.

ENTRIES

Not-a-prologue----

I always pictured adults as a child, like books. Full of wisdom, yet dangerously intriguing, with numered pages, but untold mysteries, they invite you to open them but at the same time you want to keep this sacred distance between the book and the child, which must not be the case. 

I knew in the back of my head and back in my childhood that I wanted to be a writer, but when I grew of age, I have always considered trying something else, to put myself in something else other than what I knew I wanted to do, I pushed myself in other activities and professions and even in writing itself, I've tried my hand in many different forms of writing. 

I don't know the reason behind this, but I discovered lately that all writers, endured an inner insecurity that doesn't seem to vanish. And it's until recently that I understood the importance of translating this insecurity through pages and thoughts, words, ink... it is at the end, our supreme job. In this liberating discovery of finding oneself, you have to trust the revelation that doesn't escape from you and you don't seem to escape from it. 

Once you realize you find your true self in something you knew or you haven't known before, the ability to react toward it properly lies with you. It's the reaction that matters, and it's vital to remember that it comes both from inside and outside. 

If you've been driven by an unknown force toward something you could either master or not, if you've been driven by the inevitability of being consumed, entirely consumed by the magnetic tendency that with or without your consent, that is always there and present; know that this something has chosen you already, and you have chosen to live, to grow, but most of all, to become, within it.

I was eleven, and my father came up home one day with an old typewriter. I think it sat on his office unperturbed, it was something as useless as he had decided to throw it away, but upon reflection, he did think of my complains of how I wanted to own a typewriter. I was so happy. 

I was not at that time conscious with the act of writing, what was I writing anyway? The proper use of words, language, it all seemed to have not materialized fully in my head. I was still learning English and the two only languages I have had mastered back then were Arabic and French. 

I had also the tendency to read new words out loud, I felt in love with the act of knowing more about a language, I tried my best to learn Spanish but English quickly took over me. Adding to the fact that my British school influenced much of these tendencies. 

So everyday I used to sit in front of this old rusty typewriter that stimulated a strange noise out of typing, I wanted to fill the white pages with this about-to-finish ink all over, writing virtually nonsense, writing rubbish, I couldn't care less. The act of typing and hearing those letters clash with force made me realize I was doing something important, that the world ought to take me seriously. 

I just wanted to type, to act like I am actually, and physically writing. That was an immense enjoyment, that was my play game instead of videos or street balls. I was happy, just being in front of it, writing words after the other, in different languages, with different forms, with no or with punctuation, treating the act of writing with a complete lack of respect...I spent the evening peering at the photos provided in school books and dictionaries. 

I was eager to find drawn or photographed photos of castles and palaces. I knew I loved mystery and medieval ages by that time and still. The idea that there is a secret passage beyond a long painting in a big corridor was exciting. 

I created my universe, and I fantasized the ability of creating worlds that I can have the power over. In different phases of the day, making up plans and structuring where the hero would go upon entering the castle and how he would end up discovering the secret corridor that will lead him into a world he did not believe existed. I loved music at the same time, I discovered that I can possibly write under musical influence. 

Up to this day, although I am not the biggest writer, when I do I would write under music, not songs, but soundtracks, symphonies, just the rhythm to make me feel safe with a blank page and an eager pen. In the very rarest occasions, I could write listening to Opera or something of the sorts. Sometimes I rely on photographs or paintings to pull me out there as a trigger, but generally, it is me, a pen, a paper, and a world of new fresh possibilities. 

---- This section ends here. 

This was written early October, 2016. Looking back at my entries I decided to post this one which sheds light on my early beginnings. I hope you have enjoyed it.

Keep writing. Keep creating!

Imad Afdam.