I filled the whole journal.
Because I was leaking.
And the paper was the only thing that held me.
Syria…
I don’t even know how to explain it without sounding dramatic.
But maybe you’ll understand.
every street
has faces on the walls.
posters of people who died.
People who are “martyrs,” but really, most were just poor and young.
and then… they’re just posters now.
Syria is a call to prayer and a missile whistle in the same breath.
The birds fly weird.
Like even they don’t trust the sky.
You don’t learn to count like other kids.
You count sounds.
One. Two.
Bullet.
Boom.
Motorbike engine.
Hayye alalFalah
Bass drop.
Saria Al Sawas yelling habi dabi from every stereo
and your whole nervous system wants to shut down
because even joy sounds like danger.
So yeah.
When I say 2018 was a hard year,
I don’t need it to be worse than anyone’s.
I just need it to be real.
I’m just saying... be gentle with me.
I’ve seen things I don’t know how to talk about without crying.
Maybe you had your own version of 2018.
Maybe it wasn’t a tumor.
Maybe it was a bedroom where no one knocked,
or a hospital room where they said,
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
Maybe you never got to bury a person you loved.
Maybe they forgot your birthday,
and somehow that was too loud
You don’t have to earn your pain.
You don’t have to compare it.
You don’t have to explain why you’re tired all the time,
or why loud music makes you flinch,
or why you avoid mirrors.
Your journal may be invisible.
But I believe in it.
I believe in the version of you
who kept going,
even when everything said stop.
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