Life paraded its bloodied fangs in my face for the first time when I was 11, it was its way of letting my parents and I know I might have lymphoma.

Up until that point, life was more than generous to me, I was cruising down my first decade like a king who was just anointed by God; vacations in Marseille, pool days under the sun, weekend road trips to Dubai, I wasn’t denied a childhood at all, if anything, it felt like life was trying to cover up a cock-up I still wasn’t aware of.

Everything’s been different ever since I lost sight of my north star, exit sign, firefly, or whatever label you’ve bookmarked for that thing.

Last I checked, it was flickering in the distance as if to warn me to hurry up. I keep trying to walk a straight line though, hoping I don’t wobble before it starts giving out hand-me-down guidance again.

The days felt like the desert and every final minute of every hour was a mirage. It hasn’t been easy. The ticking of my living room clock has driven me mad, the stillness of my house has imprisoned me in my own home; two days after the bloody massacre, I feel like I’ve sunk into my furniture, rooting myself in-between the cushions with all the forgotten bread crumbs and dimes. It hasn’t been easy.

There’s something very unnatural about something as natural as death; you’d think human beings would get over the idea of dying instead of locking themselves up in a closet filled with self-pity, but after finally accepting my grandpa’s death, i realized death was life’s only protagonist.

Why start a race you’re never going to finish? Might as well shoot yourself in the leg at the start line.

You’re supposed to love your mother, that’s how it is, isn’t it?

The idea is stamped next your name on your birth certificate on the account that she carried you around her belly on that Disneyland tour and pushed you out of her normal-sized vagina.

Not my mom though, the phrase “I love you, mama” takes flight the minute I open my mouth because of who she is as a person.

The recreation center was my PG13 childhood; but as boring as it was, it was always exciting to walk through those doors.

Joana had her moments there, Tareq and Mohammad had their moments, and I think I did too.

‘We’re Lina’s children’, my sister would answer whenever the receptionist asked; ironically, they’d always know which Lina she meant.

Between my bed and office desk, I brace myself with a strong head of optimism; it’s always the same thing, a daily commute of around seven kilometers fueled with favorable what-if’s, but you know as well as I do, I’m never getting off this van.

Keeping my composure helps get me through my day.

As we hop into my psyche to euthanize my problems, I notice myself getting sidetracked by popup crap; it’s complicated.

Every sidetrack reroutes my trajectory towards the life I want for myself, the good life. That being said, every reroute dilutes the good in that life, and by the end of my so-called journey, I’m just a guy with a terrible hunchback and too much baggage.

No one really gives a ‘Natour’ much thought in a city like Beirut. From what I’ve seen, my neighbors treat Mohammad like an amenity instead of any‘thing’ else.

In lament Lebanese, that’s racism with a glaring wink.