I made a promise to my English-speaking readers that I would be more consistent on this platform by writing posts in English. A promise that, quite frankly, I’ve failed to keep. Most likely, I even forgot I made it in the first place!
But I digress—time to make good on that promise. Blogging in English.
A bit of context
It’s hot! I mean, 34°C at night is a bit hot for most people, but it seems to be the norm in our country. I’m sitting on the balcony on a wooden stool made from the remains of our house door and a couple of building blocks. Sweating profusely, like I’ve just run a marathon.
Flashbacks start playing in my mind
This balcony was destroyed during the civil war a few years back—when the East attacked the West. Just a few feet away is a poorly patched hole in the floor, left by a tank shell that pierced through the balcony and into the kitchen below. That same shell destroyed the rest of the balcony’s walls and the room next to it. The balcony door was so warped I had to use a hammer and chisel just to open it.
The damage is still here. The memories may fade, but they never truly go away. Even the sound of fireworks triggers my PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). I’m still in therapy because of this nightmare. And the worst part? It could all happen again—in the blink of an eye.
I’m typing these ramblings on a ThinkPad. I finally got one. It’s used, 11 years old to be exact, and feels like the digital equivalent of a sack of potatoes in terms of performance. But it’s all I have for now.
The heat does not seem all that bad!
With these dark thoughts creeping in, the heat starts to feel like a gentle breeze—like a whisper from the wind. Strange, isn’t it?
What a way to begin these English posts, huh? Right out the gate with tales of despair and misery. But I’m not writing this for sympathy. Writing, to me, is a process of looking inward—finding what truly resonates, what echoes within. And right now, what fills the void inside me are memories of darker times.
I believe that clinging to the trauma of the past holds me back. So I’ve decided to live not as a victim, but as a survivor. Someone who has endured trials and tribulations and made it back. A little damaged? Yes. Bruised? Perhaps. But alive nonetheless.
Final Words
I hope to write more posts like this in the coming days or weeks. But knowing myself, I can be more chaotic and unpredictable than rain in the Sahara.
What do you have to lose, though? Following me is free—for now, at least.