Abandoned echoes

I am told that I should write a book of sorts. To pour the melancholy in me into paper. I do not know of a path that I should take to complete a book, but for now I will focus on completing the next sentence, the next paragraph and the next page.

Imitating is one of the most impactful ways for you to learn something, be something. The way a child imitates their grandparents. Yes, my book is off to a mediocre start. I do not know how to continue on this path but right now I am the closest to Kafka. I am an amalgamation of a billion absurdities and I need to take this forward. I need a character that embodies the very idea and the essence of my being. My being is conflicting, I am completely blindsided. I yearn for redemption.

I know of a lot of things, I lack the knowledge for the most part and I pretend and continue to pretend. To be the things that I am not, to live up to the standard of what is required of me.

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Chapter 01 – 30-04-2025 – Consistent Disruptions

The path to adulthood, for someone who planned out their whole life, I was hit with multiple barrages, barricades and my heart was caged. Every single time I was out of line it started to ache. An ache that refused to go away, an ache that would subside, the mere thought of anything that I am not supposed to have was the end of me. Being stuck in an endless minute. Time slows down, just like writing this book—each sentence and each paragraph. But stuck inside a minute, a minute of endless agony, I kid you not. I am speaking about the physicality of angst, something so severe, but I sought comfort in, not anymore. I just want to be held. To be embraced by the warmth of a woman, oh to be loved.

Enough about the warmth of a woman. Back to suffering. The kind that sits on the back of your neck, waiting and waiting. A symbiote, waiting to take me over. The pain of uncomfortable conversations is way more alleviating than the absence of any. Not being able to speak of anything, letting it marinate in your bones and bloodstream. Letting it sit in, constantly constantly letting yourself sit in the background. I am in awe at how much suffering is caused by heightened perspective and an extreme level of self-awareness. It is all my fault, it will always be my fault. I continue to let myself go or I need everything to be under my control.

Control. I could barf by the mere thought of it. I am not kidding you right now, it is an ode. I want to speak about the ability to—let’s start with the lack of it. The lack of ability, your whole body conspires against you. You let it take a split second and you’re done. I am very conflicted internally but never let it slip away, but I am not so sure about it anymore. Being at your optimum mental health is something we don’t give ourselves enough credit for, not nearly enough. When you can’t stand up from bed, having weaker knees, the only thing you could do is throw up and even when you barely eat anything. Days are longer, you’re going through it by the minute. You microanalyze every interaction you had over the years, every single one. I still do so. What is something I could have done differently. I do not dwell on the past. Right now I do. I have lost. There is no shame in admitting defeat. There is no plan of comeback. There is only conquering the minute. We’re at half a day. Staying sane amidst the drum roll chapter title drop consistent disruptions. The consequences of the sins of my grandfather—that is, my past self. I am in no state to hold myself accountable. I am only capable of providing myself with some of the warmth I promised myself. It is a struggle, it is an act of war. I make it sound grand but I am nothing but a weak man, that I continue to disappoint. I need to handle myself with more grace, more empathy and less criticism. I owe myself everything that I give others. It all sounds great in writing, the effort it took me to be this kind has been excruciating, but the effort that needs to be put in staying kind is the wrath of every single fuck-up of my life.

How is it that I continue to endure? This is all about me, everything that I am and everything I will be. An insane way to put it, but what I truly feel right now as I type out each word is the worthlessness—that I am nothing, I am nothing, I whisper it to myself. The next minute I look within me to see if I say otherwise, my mind is numb. I am only capable of feeling the depth of the entirety of my loneliness and the inability of being loved. Even if I were to be, it is consistently disrupted. Disrupted by the forces within and without. Is this a force working towards my greatest downfall? The downfall and the comeback of the century. I write into a void, I matter not, I say all this for a sprinkle of sympathy. I beg. We’re witnessing the lowest of lows. The narcissism hasn’t kicked in yet. Maybe it is dead within me.

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Chapter 02 – 30-04-2025 – Impatience | I Belong to Dust

Is this even a word. Hold up. It is.

I tend to feel even the littlest of changes in tone and mannerisms, the subtleties ruin me. The way I try not to let it get to me. I wanted to write about impatience, I have something else crossing my mind right now, the irony.

We’re surrounded by so many temptations, it is of dire need—we need a reset. Resets can only take you so far, I have continued to accept the fact I am nothing in a "I don’t matter a lot, this is a vast universe and I am a speck" kind of way, not in the nihilistic, I-want-to-kill-myself way. I left home 6 months ago, safe to say I have lost everything. There is nothing meaningful in my life other than the connection I have with Allah, so that also means that I have actually lost nothing. I have everything.

This sense of direction I have now is of low clarity, I am nowhere near the end of the tunnel. I don’t think I will be there anytime soon. I continue to endure, to understand the true depth of my being and my ability to suffer before I go insane. I do not belong to this country, I do not belong to the country I was birthed in—birthed sounds more dramatic. I do not belong in my home and I do not belong in the place I now reside in. I am not the same person I was a minute ago. Imagine what it is like when days, weeks and months pass. I change, grow, evolve and break. I am in a constant state of change, a shift, and I reside in the most obscure moments. I do not belong to anyone anymore. I am not the son that left, I am not the friend that calls, I am not the stranger that smiles. I carry weight. I wear shades to mask my tears, I try to be everything and my potential is dust. I come from it and it is only fair I return to it.

I fear, I am being watched, constantly constantly monitored. I dream of not wanting to disappoint people. I dream of not being enough. I am not enough. I can never be. I was made to feel this way. I gave access and now it is all real. In truth and in life, I lost it. From uttering 68 words per minute to not being able to put out anything but a weary smile—the loss of life, the loss of me. I want to be and do things better than what is required of me. I do not mean anything to anyone, I do not mean anything to myself. I am a pawn to be sacrificed. My worth is tied to it, in my ability to sacrifice. Life has shown me lately that no matter how much I sacrifice—I HAVE SACRIFICED EVERYTHING. Literally anything that had any meaning in my life. It did not matter. If it is not meant to be, it just is not meant to be.

I am not meant to be. Greater things, bigger paths, longer life—I do not long for anything now. I only tell myself I need to perfect my day. There is no tomorrow, there never was a yesterday. Having no tomorrow is fucking me up. The pressure I put myself through to perfect a day—I barely make it. I have no answers, I have no template. I try to figure out ways that resonate with me but one can only imagine Sisyphus happy. I wish the boulder just crushed me. The weight of my thoughts, as someone as imaginative as I am... I want you to know it is not for the faint-hearted. This might also be a call for help. I am of a faint heart. I do not carry the resilience that is required of me. Every time I say such a thing I say “that is required of me”—an invisible noose tightened around my neck. I set standards about myself and require myself to do shit that no one really gives a rat’s fuck about. I am only discovering this about myself right now as I write. I am pissed dawg. Is this how I have been living? What is the meaning of this? I need to figure this all out. The state of which is required of me is that, I started recording myself speaking every single day. I did not want to lose my English to this country. It went from speech practice to vlogging to me just losing it. 55 days later, I do this for myself and here I am telling myself today that—I felt it. I am starting to pretend trying to impress someone that does not exist. I continue to live for this invisible approval. The hand that is on my shoulder that would either comfort me or choke me. I am still trying to decide to find a note on how to end to this chapter. I want to let this sink in and marinate a bit. I will get back to this tomorrow. I need more clarity.