I have the choice to write through one experience or another; which is more prior than the other is a question I’ll have to answer for myself. Nonetheless, I am only being disoriented for no more than a few minutes.
Today was the last first day of school, thankfully.
It’s disembodied of me to state the following: It is hard going to my high school. I never complain too much, or soak myself in the swamp I was brought up in; I never let my head get too deep too. But it is unmistakeable to say that I have ignored it for so long—And so long it shall continue to be.
I have always looked on the underlying betterment of everything; I knew literature and its bittersweet cynicism of reality, but I never took it personally. I didn’t see it. I never wanted to see it. I still don’t. But it’s way psychotic to keep ignoring it. I want it to go on record, about just how bad it is.
Public school education in Qatar is the worst thing on the planet, for a Qatari public high school student that has mistakably misplaced his head way too high.
I am trying to put together the imperfections against the pleasures, and it’s obscenely difficult to be in suspension any longer. I don’t want to spend two hours detailing the excess of awful, simplistic, fat, echoless voices and experiences, but I definitely do want to convey their absurd existence. More or less, I know that I am not making anything better, but heck it, it’s not always about making things better.
I will survive, for another ten months. But I am not seeing too much silver to the lining of my education.
No, I think I don’t need to find impossibility just yet. I don’t know what I need anymore.
If the scale of judgement of abilities and actions is broken by geographical and cultural divides, how conventional can an outcry seem?
My mind wishes to stop writing, because it isn’t responsive to critical rants.
I am stupid, yes, I’ve always been. But I never liked it. And I don’t want to inherit it the next morning, like I always do. But I’ve tried, oh, yes, I’ve tried. Try to venture farther from the environment we were brought in, I guarantee you, that you’ll see the better light ten years later. I like to think of it as my absurd, Kafkaesque dream, through which things contrast to completion. Meaning, that I should owe it to the swamp.
I kept repeating, “And when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” — Friedrich Nietzsche. Every time I wanted to resist or argue against minuscule faultiness in their lengthy traditional first-day-of-school speeches. Then, I tried to take myself out of the room, to find that it is, quite frankly, hard to achieve.
The case might be, that I was just born a bug, and I am suddenly realizing it.
P.S. Fatma, I am very okay, do not worry about me. I’d come to you if I was feeling just about anything—anything!