Today is the anniversary of Nomadic Intuition. I first started this blog whilst sitting on a wooden bench in the hall of the plaza building, waiting for my psychology course. I was  40 minutes early to class, which is not unusual for me. I didn’t even look forward to the class, I taught myself the material just fine and could do without showing up. But in a way I don’t have the words to articulate, I am submissive to time..to the time of myself and others. It’s deeper than where I have to be or whom I have to see, it’s about the maker of time itself.  If I am not exceedingly early, I am late, and consequently, anxious. I will not be foolish and induce my own anxiety, so I must be early. To anything and everything.

I have not posted many posts in the last year, but I have posted enough…what I do here will always be enough for me. I will never promise weekly uploads if tomorrow is not guaranteed. And even if tomorrow were certain, whose to say my creativity is? Inspiration comes to me as a fleeting fly that escapes before I can catch it, and like the fly, on the rare instance I calculated where to clap so that even if it tried to fly, it flew into my hands,  I realized I killed it. My curiosity. I gave up on eagerly trying to trap it, the self-imposed pressure to write kills it.

On more fortunate days, inspiration is whole and clear, it comes to me as the old man I see smoke both a cigarette and blunt on the train platform, alternating between the two, never had I seen a thing like it. I then wonder if cancer or choking on the smoke will kill him first. I figure the latter, he smokes like he knows his genes work in his favor, so he focuses on other issues, wanting them to dissipate like the smoke that leaves his mouth. But even on a fortunate day, night comes, and just as so, inspiration becomes as blurry and free as the smoke the old man puffs out, not wanting to be seen, spreading so that it becomes fainter and soon, forgotten. Thoughts not summoning into a clear sentence, they do not want to be put down on paper, and I will not force what is not meant to be. Creativity. Gone.

The fleeting nature of my creativity is why I may never finish the many short stories I have already started. My Aaba always could sense from the beginning that I became a burning flame just as quick as I would then become the burnt shrub that remained. He says I develop a liking for many things too hastily and don’t have the patience to see them through. It is why after I confess my love for a new instrument on this day, or talk about the idea I must patent on another, he always concludes our conversation by reminding me that I am just like the ones in his family that came before him, always dreaming of many things, but at risk of never waking up because I do not choose which dream to manifest. I dream more than I do.

I end this by saying thank you. Thank you for letting my words walk alongside the seconds of your time. The occasional messages I receive in response to my words make my heart smile. If you’re reading this, thank you for helping me defy the ways of my ancestors, I’m a dreamer, but some dreams I will not depart from. Writing is for me, and for the one who cares to know me. Here’s to one year of my blog! Alhamdulillah!

Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman