I am listening to the wind through the open window, my mind tangled in a web, heavy, broken, weak as if one who’s been defeated in battle.
There are invisible barriers in a writer’s head. These barriers are not physical, pragmatic, tangible obstacles that stand in one’s way. These are not barriers that you can push aside, or work through, or ignore. Invisible barriers are the small details, the makeup of your day: a pen that refuses to work, a set of keys that go missing, a mishap or wrongdoing that distracts the train of thought. I would love to say that I don’t expect perfection, that I am not a perfectionist, that if an external factor dysfunctions, I am not affected whatsoever. But as a writer, I am sitting in a room of physical dilemmas, mistakes and errors. I see them. I write them. I think through them. I try to correct them with my pen, in my head. I try to make sense of the imperfect, which leads to an urge to better, if not perfect my inner flaws.
If I am exhausted physically and mentally, I become so immersed with these invisible barriers that I lose myself, my confidence, and sometimes, even my pen. I forget the powers I have as a writer. And when you have no power, you are lost. When you are lost, you are forgotten, distant from the very soul you learned to love and appreciate.
I listen, to the wind, to the night. To find what, I do not know. I feel shallow, empty beneath the surface. My words have no strength tonight. My words are empty. I don’t feel it. I feel nothing.
I should say nothing then.
There…I’m nothing.
I want the night to take me away. I want the night to burry me in the middle of the sky, behind the moon, around the stars. I want to be rid of my mind. I want to sleep. In my sleep, I want to be a fairy, an angel, a ghost. I am tired of being, of always writing in my head, of looking into things that need not be looked at.
Let me be lost. God, let me go tonight. Let me go.

If you stretch out your arm, you can hold the city in the palm of your hand. If you look to the far end of the water, you will see a blur of the flickering city lights, a blur of everything you ever wanted, everything you ever dreamed of. The desire is absolute; the dream is an illusion. The magnitude of the water makes you forget yourself. You are a whisper in the glaring night; you are an illusion of your dreams. You are light, empty, floating. Then, you feel the heaviness of the wind, and you begin to sink in what is no longer a delusion. You sink in, with your thoughts, your dreams, your desires of all that is left above the deceiving, shallow waters.

I am on a Ferryboat with my companion, sightseeing, imagining myself as a New Yorker, searching for a sign. There are others among us, but I am my own dreamer, lost in my own misery. I am happy in this boat. Miserably happy to be left with nothing but water, a mild wind, and a city that always glimmers from afar. Not too long into the ride, I lose myself. And suddenly, I can hear nothing. I can feel nothing, but a deep urge to stretch out my hand, feel, touch and breathe the perfect miniature of New York City.
The realization, the awakening, the process of losing and becoming, of accepting and letting go all happens in fleeting moments. I realize, that with all its vastness and magnitude, with all its immensity, I can hold the dream in my hand. I can feel its vibe, its beating heart, its every wall, and its concrete, metallic frame. Knowing that I can hold it all in the palm of my hand awakens my dead soul. I wake to become, not a dreamer, but a believer, in solid ground, in unison with the city. I wake to become myself, a writer, an optimist. I breathe, accept the current state of being and let the dream go. I let it go because I know I have it, at any moment, at any time. I let it go because it is and will always be mine, on this page, in my head, in my heart. It is mine.
Sometimes you have to let go in order to become. Sometimes you have to take a few days, throw yourself on the dirty streets of Manhattan to know what you want. Sometimes you have to be selfish so that one day you will give to others first. Sometimes you have to believe without calling yourself a fool.
I woke up this morning, feeling nostalgic, remembering yesterday’s ride back home, remembering that morning’s gloomy sun. S and I had taken one final look at our cheap, shabby room. Outside the tiny window, old garbage and opened trash bags covered the ground. The compressed air stank of mildew and rotten food. But above the filth, above the cage-like windows, the clouds were a lively white in what looked like a watercolor painting.
As a writer, as an optimist, as a believer, you see both sides of every picture. You accept not only its authenticity, but also its dense surreality, its imperfections. You work past the flaws, past the imperfect brush strokes to get a sense of peace and satisfaction.
I can hold a perfect picture in the palm of my hands. I can let go of my fears of its imperfections. I can let go of the misery that I have put upon myself. I can wait to solidify my writing and myself. I can put myself out of ignorance. I can learn to let go of great expectations.
The city awaits, and so do my dreams and a million other stories.

As I lower myself into a nearly filled bathtub, one I had difficulty making, it suddenly hits me that life on the outside is too dissatisfying.
But the realization comes later, much later…
I wanted, more than anything, a glass of wine. I wanted a Hollywood moment, sipping red wine, drenched in soap and sadness like Bridget Jones. Oh, the possibilities.
There was no wine. In our house, wine is implied to be a forbidden drink. Maman is a liberal who gave up most of her faith, but never dared sip the forbidden, sinister wine. Baba, well, he is Baba, the man whose silence empowers the rest.
There were no bubbles in my poor excuse of a bath, but nevertheless, I got satisfaction, preparing for a few moments of peace and nothingness, wordless soundtracks, and harmless daydreams. I decided to float for a bit, think. But the thoughts became more depressing that I had intended for them to be. In my thoughts, I was a dissatisfied, indolent child, uncertain of all that I once believed to be certain. I used to believe I’d never be doubtful again.
Merde…
In thinking, I despised my very being for how useless, futile it had become, for its unwillingness to accept and settle. Accept the uncertainties that, for the moment, I have no control over. Accept the uncertainties that a 19 year-old child would go through. Accept that I am now faced with too many roads and would, by any means, question and doubt certain matters. Settle for a low-paid job to make it to the next big thing. But what do we get out of settling, of accepting when there is always more to devour, more to understand, more to become? What do we get by letting time go?
I am not willing to let time go. I am not willing to drench myself in a stupid, bubble-less bath, feel pity on my soul for being overtly pathetic. I am not willing to watch myself tear every single fingernail because life isn’t good enough.
Merde…
It’s a pity to have a pen in your hand, only to let it consume you, beguile you into some fantasy world of ideologies, coffee cups and provocative reads, sexy, but costly red shoes and fancy hairdos. It’s a pity to think you have reached too far for your age when your body and mind is slowly deteriorating from the unfairness of the world…
Get real you fool. Get real, stop wandering. Stop wondering of New York and its ambiguities. Get real, work with what you have, at this moment, and then find your way. The city is there, will always be there. You’re ready. All you have to do is figure things out. Figure out what you want. Figure out what you can offer, what can be offered to you. Talk. Stop thinking for a moment about all that you are ignorant of. You are young. You are working to get there. Just, wait.
A teacher once wrote to me: “Take a year to unwind, untangle, unearth. Then move to the world that waits for no one but needs someone like you. You have options. Take them.”
I am ready, more ready than I ever felt before. I just need someone to tell me everything will work out. I need some answers. And a little more time.
Shit…

Morning skies have a different tone, a different style than night skies. Morning skies are uncertain, ambiguous, both with and without the presence of clouds. They make little sense, bounding you to search them, look and inspect to figure out the day, the time. It’s anticipation that fills the morning skies when you head out in complete unawareness and uncertainty, in doubt, even ignorance. You are lost even before the day commences.
Writers think, or else they wouldn’t write. They look for meaning. They like to analyze and decipher even the smallest things, the smallest ideas. The idea of happiness, the idea of love, the idea of being one with the universe, the idea of falling for someone. Everything, even the morning sky in its utter abstractness, has to be understood.
Understanding requires thought. Thinking requires sanity and devotion to time. Time can drive one insane. Insanity can lead to a deep urge and desire to let go of it all…
And so the writer looks for a distraction, a temporary breather, a stopping point, a comma.
*
In a gloomy, reddish sky, I wake to find my body asleep, hard, paralyzed and fatigued. I wake to find myself thinking; it’s the thinking that wakes me up. My day has not started and my mind is already thinking, way ahead of me. I need something, so I grab a sweater, dash for the bathroom, splash my face with water, and there, peace. I am awake now. Already thinking.
The morning skies are a curtain of awakening colors that make you think the day will go by in a breeze. But at some point, you will push the curtain aside to peek at what’s hidden because you are curious. You want to know everything. You want to know what’s out there. You want to see.
I can’t look at the sky and not think of my existence in relation to it. I can’t just look. I have to think about it.
What more can I be?
What is my happiness?
Who am I?
The desire to know and to be understood by everyone who misunderstands is a killer. I am misunderstood and I do not know how to make them, those who don’t understand me, understand. And in thinking, there are always more flaws, more gaps that I find within myself. In thinking, there are more reasons for dissatisfaction, for unhappiness, for misery, for loneliness, for isolation. In thinking, there is danger, fear, all of which constitute an abstract idea.
I get tired of ideas. I get tired of thoughts. I get tired of everyone who misunderstands my silence and my rampant thoughts. I get tired of wanting to understand the abstract, the idea of what makes life. I get tired of waking up, thinking. I get tired and suddenly, I don’t get myself anymore.
At 19, I learned one thing that released me temporarily. I found a breather, a comma in between my train of miscellaneous thoughts, my desperation to lead myself out of ignorance and mediocrity. I learned to take over the wheel.
I had no fear for the first time in my life. I have lived with fear ever since childhood. I have lived with the fear of being misunderstood. I have lived with the fear of being wrong. I have lived fearfully. I learned to let go of that fear. When you take over the wheel, there are too many things to be afraid of. There are people and cars and bikes and a whole world that is rushing by you with time. If you let fear get to you, you will lose control. You have to stop thinking while you drive because the road will show you the way.
The wheel is not just independence. Independence is a broad term. Independence is American life; it’s dreams that are not out of reach. It’s not just power. Writing is power, thinking is power, being who you want to be is power. It’s not just the adrenal running in your blood. It’s more than that. It’s freeing yourself from fears that hold you back. It’s freeing yourself from thoughts, from ideas that are too conceptual to be made concrete.
I love being free for that moment when I hold on to the wheel and let myself go. I let my thoughts disperse into the roads and I make no stops to gather them. I love being free of my fears. I love feeling good, as a driver, not a writer. I love being a driver for that moment, and not a writer who is desperate to figure things out.
Some things are meant to be unwritten. Some things are meant to be unanalyzed. As a writer, you pick at those things because you are stubborn and you have nothing better to do. You pick at your coffee cup and the spoon that stirs the sugar. You pick at your belongings. You pick at yourself. You are too damn stubborn. As a driver, you sit back, simply to drive. You turn up the sound of the music that makes you drive faster. You enjoy a breeze, every second or two. You are at peace with yourself. You don’t criticize the very soul you live in. You don’t expect that soul to understand everything that happens on the road. You don’t pick at your fingernails. You don’t question. You just drive and in that moment, nothing else has to make sense.