17 March 2017 4:00 AM
How much of this will make sense when I return to it at later time is questionable. It is 3:30 am, I am tired, mentally and physically. The light from my phone in this dark room as I write this hurts my eyes And as usual, my mind won’t let me be. I haven’t always been this way.
In an attempt to make sense of my life, of who I am, what I’m doing, and where I’m going, I have decided to try and keep a journal of my thoughts. Trying to glean meaning from what at times seems and feels meaningless can be an arduous and painfully frustrating thing that almost always leads to a Stygian place despair, fear, and loneliness. There are times when I feel high, like I am soaring through the clouds. But these moments are fleeting, and when I try to hold on to them it is like grasping at air. For the most part, I am trampled under a stampede of thoughts, ideas, images, and all those things that make us who we are, or at least who we seem to be as individual human beings. If anything, keeping a journal will help me to hone my horrendous writing skills and pick up a few new words so that I don’t sound like a braying donkey that neighs the same neigh all the time.
This journal, I hope, will be… must be, candid. Perhaps, in this attempt to give actual words and meaning to the kaleidoscope of my character I may be able ‘find myself’. I cringe as I write this as it comes across as supremely egocentric, vain, and ugly. So very self centred. But I suppose that is the point of this exercise. I have been running away from my ‘self’, afraid to look back for fear of seeing some hideous troll. And perhaps this is part of the problem.
For the most part, I think I’m a decent person. But at the same time, I don’t like who I am. Why? Perhaps writing down my thoughts can help, maybe even pinpoint certain things that upon reflection may make sense at a later date in time that can help.
I am not necessarily looking for answers. But if I can clear up the debris that clutters my path I can at least walk this road with more courage.
I am by no means a miserable or boring person. On the outside. I tend to be quite happy and jovial. Very athletic (obsessively so). But on the inside…
Perhaps the worst thing is when I am surrounded by people, friends, family etc, I still feel alone, different, outside. While the world moves forward, along with my physical self, my mind seems to be a relic of the past. Not my past, but some primordial other, a kind of chaos that needs a balance of order.
Who I am, peripherally:
I am 34 years old and of Arabian (mostly) decent. I was born and raised in the United Kingdom in the beautifully twisted melting pot that is London. I have a job and earn just a little over the average salary which by standards set by other parts of the world is not too bad (regardless of which, this city is determined to never let me see or save a penny of). I have a fairly decent education, having studied and achieved both a BA and MA in the humanities. Yet these pieces of paper do nothing for me. The more I learn, the older I get, the less intelligent I feel. No, I am not an idiot, just very aware that whatever education I have received from an institution of higher learning bears no substantial meaning in the greater scheme of things. The world is a universe, a university degree is but an unseen atom.
I am a somewhat healthy person as I frequent a local..ish gymnastics club. In the day, because the nature of my work affords me the time, I sometimes frequent the local gym. I say somewhat healthy because of my occasional use of a tobacco pipe that does not always burn just tobacco, a habit that while soothing, I hope to stop.
I am not married, I am single, and I have a beautiful family who are always there for me but I can’t seem to talk to.
Writing this now I realise that I am just rambling on to the point of this becoming gibberish.
I’ll just leave it here for now, I just hope that I can keep this journal going. I need something to do, something fulfilling, something expressive.