While I was aimlessly browsing, I landed on some blogs that I stopped reading awhile ago. There’s nothing wrong with them really, I had just stopped reading because I felt like moving on from their narrative. It’s hard to explain in any other way but I guess I got a bit bored and because I felt they were stuck in a particular tone or maybe even at a point in life, and ended up writing only that way. This is a funny thing to say because it is true that we all write in certain tones and it’s not easy to change the tone of a personal blog (especially if it works for you and you have lots of readers).
Anyway, the blogs I reread after practically 2 years still do sound just the same and it is as if I’ve missed nothing at all. This got me thinking about my own blog and my own tone which I feel I have tried to change for my own sake. I think the tone of this blog is mainly sad and nostalgic and a part of me is definitely that and also a part of me likes to write about that. Bringing out other sides of myself in blog writing is not as easy I find. My writing is brought on by the physical equivalent of staring down a dark tunnel and wondering if I’ll ever come out. This is another reason why I wish I were a better photographer. I feel that my pictures are far happier than my writing is and I wish I could express myself better through them.
For now though, I’m going to write about another morose topic: death. Mourning in this way is entirely new to me. As a child I don’t know if I had felt this gaping absence when my grand-parents died. This time around, I haven’t really had the space or the opportunity to grieve my aunts and my grand-mother who died within the past year and a half. Sure it was snatched here and there, with my mom or over the phone with my cousins. But, I couldn’t attend any funerals or quran khanis, or any collective mourning rituals. While I was visiting Geneva, a couple of times I caught my mom crying and waves of sadness would wash over me. But really, how am I supposed to give in to that in the middle of a perfectly normal day in the kitchen? How am I supposed to express that?
It has caught me at strange times this, whilst swimming at the gym I saw a girl who looked like my aunt and I cried a little whilst doing my laps. Or yesterday when I woke up with the realization that I will never touch them again, and no matter where I go on this planet I will never find them again. Just the thought made me want to start running down the streets to find them. How could emptiness feel so oppressing? Time has passed but I guess you never get over these things.