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.