It was a cold night. Thick pillows of snow lay in blankets around campus and the air had a stillness about it, right before it’s going to snow again. The sky was clear, but you could tell more snow was coming. It was only five o’clock, but it felt like midnight because of the still darkness.

We were packed into the library like sardines. It was noisy, as students milled around with their books, as they babbled with their friends and on their phones.

There were no more seats left so we had to sit in the bookshelves. It was the first time I’d ever sat on the floor and studied, our notes spread out like fans in front of us. What I didn’t know was that this would become one of our spots. To talk when we didn’t want to be overheard, to share secrets like a pair of silly school girls, to gossip about anyone and everyone, and to giggle about our crushes.

We had been studying for a few hours now, and had now moved onto talking about ourselves. I wasn’t good at talking about myself; I didn’t think I was interesting enough. I was good at discussing the rise and fall of civilizations, but not about myself.

As we sat among the bookshelves, laughing and talking, I was struck by the thought that it was too easy. It was December and my last exam of my first semester of university was just a few hours away. And even though the end was so near, the feeling of the tightening of my chest, the rapid breathing, and the spinning of the room were all things that I couldn’t forget so quickly. It had only been a few short months ago, in the first week of September, my first week of university, that I had my first ever panic attack. And as I attended my classes like a zombie, and just tried my hardest to fit in, to not stand out, the next one always seemed imminent.

But sitting with a friend in the bookshelves now, studying for an exam, it all felt so normal. I felt normal. I had already finished four other exams and tomorrow was the last one. I had (almost) made it.

School was the easy part, but my social life was sorely lacking. As I sat with the girl from my class in front of me, I eyed her warily. Could we really be friends? It was something I asked about every girl I spoke with, as if I was just waiting for my great university story to unfold before my eyes, like so many others had told me it would. But so far, I couldn’t see it.

Our parents were friends from before, and we had met a few times before finding out we were finding out we were going to the same university. As she laughed at one of my lame jokes, I felt my insides twist: was she only hanging out with me because of my mom?

My mom was known to try and push me towards people. She was confident, and wanted me to be the same. When I wasn’t, she sometimes tried to arrange my social life for me, hoping that I’d be the social butterfly she was.

As our laughter died out, she said, “I’m thinking of getting something to drink from Starbucks to help me stay awake for the rest of the night. Do you want anything?”

I stammered, “Um, n-no. That’s okay.” I had never had anything from Starbucks before. I didn’t drink coffee, so there was never any reason to shell out money for it.

She stood up. “Well why don’t you come for the walk anyways? We’ve been sitting for ages.”

So I got up and joined her. In the Starbucks line, she told me a funny story about her mom. As we stood in line, I looked around the shop and saw a few people I recognized from my classes. A girl smiled at me as she caught my eye and I smiled back hesitantly.

As we neared the counter, my classmate scanned the menu and said, “I always get the same thing whenever I come here: the white chocolate mocha. It’s the yummiest drink ever. Have you ever had it?”

I shook my head. “No, I’ve never tried it.”

“Oh my gosh, you have to try it then!” she said, moving closer to the counter. “It’s perfect for such a cold, wintery night and it’ll help you stay awake. Hi, can I get two tall white chocolate mochas? Thanks.” She reached for her wallet and pulled out her green debit card. “I’ll pay for both.”

I clutched at my sides. I had left my book bag upstairs, which had my wallet in it, after being assured by my friend that no one would take it. Now I felt like a fool.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, as the girl at the counter handed us the receipt and we went back to the front of the line to wait for our drinks. I could feel my face turning red.

She smiled. “It’s fine. Just wait till you try it though! It tastes like Christmas.”

Once our drinks were called, we took them and went back upstairs to the fourth floor bookshelves where our stuff still was. I checked my bag quickly and saw that my wallet was still there.

As we sat back down and opened up our notes again, she said, “So do you have any plans for the holidays?”

I shook my head. Other than watching Harry Potter movie marathons and baking up a storm, I had no plans. “Not really.”

“We should get together,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

So far no one had invited me to hang out outside of school. They were all busy desperately hanging on to their high school friends, while I wanted a completely fresh start.

I took a sip of the warm drink. It was sweet and foamy with a shot of something bitter going through it.  A warm feeling began to spread throughout me as I nodded and smiled at her.

It was the yummiest thing I had ever tasted. What I didn’t know was that every time I would have a white chocolate mocha in the years to come it would remind me of the moment when my classmate became my friend, my very best friend, and how an awful first semester of university transformed into the best 4 years of my life.

Hello friends.

So this question has been plaguing me for a few weeks now and I still don’t know how to answer it. Are you still considered a writer if you don’t write? Can you still call yourself a writer if it’s been awhile since you’ve written anything worthwhile?

Before everything else, the first word I used to describe myself was a writer. I was constantly daydreaming about storylines of future books or plotting out my next book. I went through notebooks like crazy because I was constantly writing snippets of dialogue or ideas down. Even when I was working on a project, I was still thinking of the next one. If I was busy in school and not able to work full time on a manuscript, I wrote poetry and short verses. It just had to be done.

Like some people breathed out air, I breathed out words. It was my way of surviving in the world and coping with life: writing it down .

After I began this blog, it became my primary source of writing. I still wrote in my notebooks, but now I transcribed those scribblings to share with the world. If my stories couldn’t be public, I still found pleasure in sharing brief bits of myself and my thoughts with the world.

This was of course during a time when not many people knew about this blog. I was able to share my feelings and emotions through my writing in my little corner of the internet. But the more I added content (like recipes), the more the blog grew and more friends and family found out about it. I was more self-conscious about what I wrote, but still posted my writing.

Then I got married. My life totally changed. I wanted to express all these new changes on here, but for certain reasons, I couldn’t. With all the changes, I also stopped writing for me.

I knew that I wouldn’t be writing any novels anytime soon after getting married, but I didn’t realise that all writing would stop. It wasn’t intention. But as I take stock of the past several months, I realise how little I’ve sat down to write. Whether it’s this blog or personal writing, it’s all pretty much disappeared.

The other night when I couldn’t sleep, I went through the writing category of this blog and started reading all of my old poems and freestyle verses, I was struck by this immense sense of longing. As I read over everything I had ever posted, I remembered how much I loved it, how liberating it would feel to express myself, to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard). Not only that, but I was good at it. I’m not saying this to boast, but I enjoyed reading my writing.

Just like a photograph, they brought back a whole slew of memories and emotions. And not just that, they reminded me of a time when writing was my life. It was all I wanted to do with my time, everything I aspired to be.

Reading old posts and verses and poems reminded me of my old self. I’m not saying I want to go back to that time (it was awful), but I do miss my love for writing and the way it was such an integral part of who I was.

I still think of myself as a writer, but as I looked back at everything, it led me to ask myself whether I had the right to call myself that anymore. I hardly write anything for myself anymore. Just a few snippets of poetry here and there, but nothing major. Am I still a writer?

And as I sit here writing this post, pausing every now and then to try and figure out my thoughts, I come up with a thousand reasons why I don’t write as much anymore. But even to my own ears some sound more like excuses rather than reasons.

But the biggest reason (or call it excuse if you will) is time. I don’t have the time. There’s so many other things I have to do now that some days I don’t even touch my computer till night (and that’s so rare for me). The other blog takes up more of my time now because I run it like my job. And when I do have some spare time, I’m not in the emotional space to write. My brain is just too tired.

When you write, you have to pour a little bit (or a lot) of yourself into your work. Think of it like Riddle’s diary in Chamber of Secrets lol; Ginny ended up pouring so much of herself into the diary. That’s the way my writing has always been; it requires a lot from me. And these days I don’t have a lot to give.

I know there’ll come a time when I’ll get used to things and be able to balance things better. And so I’m willing to put certain things on hold till then. But I just hope my ideas don’t run dry and that my inspiration doesn’t run out.

I often think of starting a journal, just as a way to express myself because some days I feel like I need to do it in order to feel sane. But again, I never make it to the notebook or to the computer and then the day is done and the emotions end up staying locked up. 🙁

So I guess my answer to the question I’ve been asking myself for weeks is YES. Even if all I do is write a few posts like these here and there or a few verses, I still think of myself as a writer. Because I plan on coming back to it one day soon, inshAllah. It doesn’t matter if it’s in a few months or in a year or two. It’s such a huge part of my past and it’ll always be a part of me. I just have to figure out a way to keep it from drying out.

Anyways, I think this long, rambly post has gone on long enough! I’m not sure who even reads this blog anymore given the sporadic nature of posts, but oh well. It feels good to just get it all down 🙂

As always, thanks for reading,

Ikhlas

These words flutter helplessly against my lips, clamouring to be let out, to be allowed freedom to escape and soar into the wide, wild, world. To sweetly caress and to kiss. To make statements and to solve arguments. To discuss and to delve deeper into issues.

But they remain trapped inside of me. They jangle loudly against the cage where they’ve been locked up inside of me. They are safer there. Inside of me.

Fear is the lock on the cage. Fear is the one that strangles them and chokes them. Fear is the one that plucks their wings and kills them violently. Before they can fly.

They say the tongue is mightier than the sword, swifter to cut, and sharper to bleed. So inside, their dull edges never cut through hearts, never pierce through hopes, or poke through dreams. They never make it to the tongue.

Before, they would trickle down my fingers and escape onto the page. They’d find a way out into the world through the pen, through the curves of ‘I’s and ‘L’s and ‘U’s. On the page, they’d make statements louder than the lips ever could. They’d speak truths bolder than the mouth could ever utter. They’d paint a perfect picture of longing and loss and love, of heartbreak and hate and home.

But now they are blood clots in my fingers, helplessly lodged there and unable to move. So they rattle against all the other thoughts that turn into words that make it out, all of the ‘okay’s and the ‘yes’s and the ‘no’s, hoping to latch onto something so they too can fly into the wild.

A few of them manage to squeeze themselves out. They are dizzy and have been locked up for so long. So they stutter and stumble from my fingers onto this cold, white page, lost, a little bit broken, and not so beautiful, to become these words.