My pen has been hovering over the paper for what seems like an eternity. I don’t know what to say. It’s ironic that I’m a writer, and yet I find that the only thing I’m unable to write about is myself. I assume it has more to do with my inability to acknowledge my emotions and less to do with my ability to write. It’s been so long since I’ve used a journal, I can’t even remember why I stopped. If I had to make a broad assumption, I’d say it’s because life happened.
Even as I write this, I know that “I was busy” is a horrible lie. It definitely started out that way, but it didn’t continue because of that. . . This journal is my attempt to confront the reality that I stopped writing because I didn’t have any more stories worth telling. I thought my adventures ended when Azami was born, and instead of beginning a new chapter, I closed the book. I know, it sounds dramatic, but I can’t deny that I felt that way.
I still get to travel on occasion for work, but it’s not the same. It’s never the same. I can’t experience the world as a twenty-something anymore. Only through memories and faint recollections. The feeling of waking up in a strange land. The smells of Kathmandu. The early morning calls to prayer in Islamabad. Maybe it’s this innate desire to always want more. I don’t know.
It’s funny to me that I used to write in a journal. How could I have been so naïve back then? I thought that I’d have so much time in the future that I’d be able to look through old memories. Or that my kids would think I was interesting enough to warrant reading about my adventures. I guess I didn’t foresee myself ending up where I did. It all happened so fast.
Fast seems kind of relative at this point. I remember looking in the mirror when I was younger, studying my own face. I’d spend a good 10 minutes every once in a while, staring. I saw it all coming. I saw the wrinkles start to develop. The greys appearing first on the side of my head, then in my beard. I remember this as if it were yesterday, and yet. . .
Why is this so difficult? Is it because I’m afraid that I will get carried away with my thoughts and write something that scares me? Isn’t that what this is for? For me to write what is within? Or is it a place for my superficial thoughts to dwell, so that I can feel like I did my part to try and fix everything?
I’m lost. Trapped in a reasonable life. One that I shouldn’t fear, and yet fear is what controls me; Fear of being an imperfect father. Fear of my marriage failing. Fear of winding up alone, sitting in an empty living room in a house that I once shared with loved ones. Kept company by old photographs and memories of happier times.
I’m sitting on a train right now, people watching while I head to the airport. They look like the undead, faces buried in their phones. I always wonder what their lives are like, or what sort of struggles they’re dealing with. Do they have family? Are they lonely? I have a weird ability to empathize with strangers. Their misery becomes mine. It’s funny that I only imagine people being miserable. It’s not empathy, It’s projection.
It’s always projection
I landed a 3-week job reviewing bed and breakfasts around Iceland for a travel magazine, which was a great. The freelance scene hasn’t been fruitful for a while, so this was definitely a job that I needed. Oki didn’t want me to go. I don’t know why. We haven’t been in a very good space lately, but we’ve been hurting on the financial front, so I felt like I had to go. Things have been so stressful. Bills are piling up, Oki had to cut back her hours at work once Azami was born. I tried to pick up as much slack as possible, but my schedule was so random, it was hard to plan. I’ve been feeling distant, as if I’m a spectator in my own life, watching all the mistakes play out on a huge lonely stage.
I felt that I needed this job. I need it. My family needs it. 10 years ago, I spent some time in Iceland and I haven’t been back since. I remember the culture, the beauty, the solitude. These are memories that I hold very dear to me and play out in my dreams. This sounds stupid, but it felt like fate was knocking, and I needed to answer. Like this job could be a stepping-stone to more jobs, and a more stable future. It’s hard to say “no” when you never know where your next paycheck is going to come from.