I woke up at 2 am last night, feeling too warm. I put my one foot out and try  to sleep again but my head is forming a poem or series of events start to find a rhythm and they want to be written down but I refuse and hope to remember it in the morning. I'm almost confident that I will, so I go back to sleep. As predicted in the morning I don't remember what thought it was, or what clarity it may have offered. But I cannot stop wondering how many thoughts I must've lost , what truths my mind may have brought to me but I simply didn't grasp it fast enough. And that is enough for me to settle into my melancholy, fully immerse in my thoughts. I have never been able to write when I'm this deeply in touch with my own self, so I go back to few of the pages marked in books, some old poetry, and even old music. It gives me comfort and sometimes terror but most times hysteria at how truly sorrowful I was at so many fleeting things in life, things I never could have made a difference upon. In one of the entries I have quoted a friend that told me that her realities are very different from mine, that we may experience a moment together and I may remember it as a poem while she may remember only the hot burning sun on our heads. I thought of this for a long time, wondering if it was a curse or a blessing to remember moments only tinted with words, romance and poetry, that I may lose the true essence or reality of a moment because of the person I am. It's a deep confusion, something even if I found an answer to it, may not satisfy me . I have always been someone who remembered life in poetry, my only grief is to not have enough words to describe every moment, not having a language that is as masterful and deep as our feelings and thoughts, Today, I feel loss, of thoughts, of reality and most of all loss of words.
I haven't written poetry. It's not a writer's block, it's a writer's too-many-inspirations-and-no-mental-energy situation. It's the first week of Ramadan, my faith has been shaky , but in a good way as I realise my faith hasn't been really my faith for a long time. It was my mother's or my father's most times, a borrowed faith and beliefs of someone else. It's been hard to come to terms with that, and to be in the most holiest month and have a shattered belief you haven't been able to put back together as fast. I'm also learning that it is hard to be honest if I'm not hiding behind metaphors , and that is something I have been working on for a long time, to be unconditionally my raw self every where and with everyone without the need to be acceptable or pretend to be something less than what I am in order to be easily understood. It does me great damage and gives me no sense of self, to be only my true self in poetry. I have been wanting my freedom back and I know I would perhaps lose the preciousness of my poems but it's a cost I'm willing to pay.

- Journal; Cost of Living (and Loving) by Thamanna Razak

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