A Life Not Always Lived

It won't go away.

This constant anxiety whenever I'm about to experience something new.

Whenever I force myself to move past the boundaries I draw for myself.

Always fear.

It's a daily battle.

I could easily sit in my room for the rest of my journey. On my bed. Daydreaming whilst looking at nothing in particular. Soaking in my inner world.

Drowning in my memories.

It is easier to simply drift into space. Sipping my espresso. Slowly pouring the Perrier inside the ice – filled glass.

But this is it.

At least, that's what we've been taught.

By others.

We won't be coming back for an encore.

And so, I'm faced with the hours to fill.

I switch off the computer and I tidy up my desk at the newspaper.

My muscles ache all over.

I want to curl in my bed and stay there for the rest of my life. To close my eyes and make – believe that I did not live all that I have lived.

But I can't.

I leave the newspaper with a lump in my throat and a heavy weight on my chest.

The fear is there.

I must create a life.

No one is gonna do it for me.

The warm July sun covers my body and some of my thoughts as I leave the building.

I shall sit alone in a cafe and write.

How I wish I were different.

Content with doing nothing.

Content with just the ordinary to keep me company.

But I am who I am.

I swallow the virtual lump in my throat and I walk slowly towards Beirut Souks.

I shall sit in a cafe and write.

Heaven only knows about what.

I feel better when I start walking.

Moving.

Sitting in front of the computer for too long is destroying me lately.

I constantly need to move in order to get past that feeling.

Of suffocating.

Of being trapped.

I cannot belong to anything.

Nor to anyone.

I look around the expensive and trendy shops in the souks.

I need to recreate a life.

For the trillionth time.

As far back as I can remember, I have always been recreating my life.

I have never sat alone in a cafe before.

I don't know how to do it.

My feet take me to "Librairie Antoine" which hosts an intimate cafe on the third floor.

My mind quiets down as my eyes rest on the endless shelves filled with colorful books and magazines.

Maybe this is the only place where I fully belong.

We are who we are.

...And this overwhelming need to recreate. To restart from scratch. As though all of that happened was not.

But it was.

Sometimes it still is.

People who have an inner world sometimes forget about the outside world.

The real world.

What is inside is enough. To live on the outside is too much work.

It requires effort.

It is easier to sit in my room and daydream.

We are who we are.

I slowly climb the stairs leading to the coffee space.

I stop at the shelves displaying travel books.

How I wish I could leave.

And never come back.

Spend my remaining days visiting countries and sitting in cafes.

Writing.

Taking pictures.

Endless pictures of lives. Ordinary lives.

A thousand and one life not really lived.

We are who we are.

I hate the people in my life when I am choking on stories. When characters are waiting to come out from somewhere inside of me.

They suffocate me.

Their mere presence rapes my world.

They invade my not – yet – lived stories simply by existing.

I order a Perrier from the Barista.

He seems sleepy.

I've already had my dose of espresso.

The only vacant table overlooks the inner part of the souks.

I don't know what I'm going to write about.

I wish i could runaway.

To somewhere there.

Where all is peaceful and nothing requires effort.

We are who we are.

I look down to where strangers are living their days.

So different from mine.

The large window and the height separate us. A million other details separate us as well.

The conversations of my neighbors at the nearby tables reach me.

Vaguely.

They are as blurred as my vision of reality.

On my right, life is happening through the large windows.

On my left, books. Hundreds of books waiting for me to dive inside their worlds.

I could easily spend the rest of my life drifting midst the corridors of my inner world.

Sitting in my bedroom living the" unlived" life.

On the inside.

But I can't.

We are who we are.

And I must create a life. Recreate it. Over and Over again.

I have never sat alone in a cafe before.

The background music is giving me the feeling that I don't need to create a life. Nor recreate it for that matter.

I already have one.

But it's a daily battle to live it.

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

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