I used to be a Writer.

Then I Forgot.

Something must have happened.

I no longer remember what.

I had my own world. I never needed anyone. I was a writer. I created people. I invented worlds.

I was 22 when I first entered the newspaper. I severely tied my hair in a ponytail and did not own a handbag. I put my stuff in a plastic bag. I carried that bag everywhere I went.

I entered the old building that had created legends in the historical Hamra Street, with fear mixed with steely determination to become famous.

I did not know how to write in Arabic having lived nearly all my life abroad.

Yet my father insisted that I was to become a journalist.

He knew that what I really wanted was to be on stage.

Somewhere in New York.

He also knew I did not have the courage to make my dream come true.

I entered that building on a hot July morning 22 years ago.

I was determined to become famous. I did not know how to write in Arabic.

And yet I was a writer. Experience and days revealed to me that I was born to write. That this world I lived in and which no one else could see was made of stories I was meant to write.

I had a boss who believed in me and who dedicated his days to teach me the Arabic language.

I was tireless.

His faith in me never "limped".

I did not know what I was doing. Yet I didn't stop.

I was driven. Ferociously. Aggressively.

I didn't stop.

My boss Aadoul became my mentor and my second father.

Together we faced all the ups and downs of my early years.

I did not notice anything around me.

I was busy writing.

It is a hot summer. It is passing quickly.

My whole life seems to have passed rather quickly.

In my twenties I was a writer.

How I miss those early days.

I was immortal.

And I was a writer.

This morning I Visited Hamra Street. Where it all began.

I parked the car and I slowly started walking.

I felt a strange feeling of Nostalgia even though I have never stopped visiting that Street even when the newspaper moved down town Beirut.

Where have all the years gone?

Hamra's noises took me back a million years.

As days passed I never really had the time to look back. And I never really knew how precious those years were. I took them for granted even though I worked as hard as my twenties allowed me.

Hamra's daily scenes made me recollect all that I have forgotten.

All that I took for granted.

I not only worked midst legends.

They actually made me.

They helped me participate in years forever engraved in my soul.

This morning I suddenly saw Hamra Street again.

For years I simply used it as a pathway to my life. My daily activities. It had lost its charm. I forgot my twenties. And I overlooked the fact that I used to be a writer.

I walked for a long time. I searched for glimpses of those early days. Then I stood in front of the old building I first entered on a hot July 22 years ago. I could see us all busy writing. We believed in causes back then. We lived through writing.

I must have discovered life.

That's it.

That's what must have happened.

I am 22 years old.

My hair is severely tied in a stiff ponytail.

I have my stuff in a plastic bag.

My clothes are so out of date.

I don't know how to "command" the Arabic language.

Yet I am a writer.

For years I remained one. I never faltered.

Then I forgot.

I kept walking in that Street for what seemed like an eternity.

I was searching for something. Someone.

Someone I used to be.

Before I forgot.

I chose an old café.

I ordered an espresso.

I took out my small notebook and my pen.

And I determinedly set out to reconnect with the writer in me I had lost throughout the years.

I was oblivious to Hamra's morning guests this morning.

I was busy searching. Making my way through the thousands of Images I have participated in all those years.

You see, I used to be a writer.

Before I forgot.

Before I allowed life to interfere.

Before I drifted midst its whims.

This morning, I wrote for all the years I had lost.

I was determined to find the writer in me I had stamped on.

It was the same steely determination that haunted my being that July morning when I first entered the newspaper building 22 years ago.

You see, I used to be a writer.

And then for many, many years I forgot.

Now, I remember.

خط أحمر كارثي وحذارِ ما ينتظرنا في الخريف!

إظهار التعليقات

يلفت موقع النهار الإلكتروني إلى أنّه ليس مسؤولًا عن التعليقات التي ترده ويأمل من القرّاء الكرام الحفاظ على احترام الأصول واللياقات في التعبير.

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