Identity
I don’t really find myself like everyone else. most times, I have no opinion on almost everything. I have no favorites. I don’t have a stance on almost anything that happens. I get asked, what’s your take on this? what’s your stance? and when I try to investigate myself within, I find none. there is no clear answer.
I don’t usually overthink how people read my titles. learning to be bothered , learning to feel again , those who are around me would probably get it. but I’m not writing for strangers anyway. I write to make things clearer to myself. and what I keep coming back to is this pattern in the things I choose to write about: the basic human functionalities, the ones everyone else seemed to pick up without thinking. politeness, warmth, asking for help, letting people in. I had to learn all of those. I was raised well, yes, but I had to do a lot of it alone. sometimes with the help of someone older who took the time. mostly by myself.
I discovered that wren was lost. he was living in his head. he carried fears and doubts that no one knew about. one of these fears was that he did not know how to look at god. not out of lack of faith, but because the way we learned religion did not include space for what a man can endure from the inside. the emphasis on this is either completely absent or very shallow. because of that, he struggled to understand what he was going through. is it good. is it punishment. the men of religion did not emphasize this enough.
Working with me used to be difficult, I am a high performer. I tend to do things with care, down to the small details, and I expect a basic level of thoughtfulness from the people I work with. not to overcomplicate life, and not to control others, but to make sure things are done properly.
I’m slowly starting to form an answer. the three years I wrote about were not random. they were shaped, heavily and quietly, by days I still don’t understand , and I keep discovering this, a little more each day. those days are becoming one of the most important chapters of my life. so dense, so unprocessed, that it has taken me years just to begin understanding what happened there. and I still don’t have the full image. there is something I haven’t yet confronted, something I’m not ready to name, sitting at the center of it that I keep circling without going in. What I do know is this: I feel like I got caught there. like I locked myself inside those days without realizing it. like there is a version of me that I left behind in 2023, specifically at the University of Khartoum, and never went back for. a version I am too afraid to think about clearly. I didn’t choose to abandon it consciously. I just never processed it. and when I try to understand why, I find nothing. not resistance, not pain, just absence.like a self discontinuity: when something ruptures so completely that the person you were before it and the person after it don’t feel connected, just splitted. it is not like growth, the I outgrew something. but like.. the way I imagine it, something that was never finished, yet I closed the door.
The only real distinction between me and many of my friends is that I seek truth as a need, not as a pastime. I have spent most of my life trying to understand the world we live in, its physical reality, its existential questions, and its moral structure. what widens this distinction is that I do not treat understanding as an instrument for enjoyment or intellectual vanity. I seek it because I need it. I need it to make better decisions, and to quiet the confusion that once crowded my mind.