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notes from inside an imaginary prison cell

Beirut, October 2, 2016

I bought a powder blue ruffle dress that mum hates.

Such a powerful opening to this promising post, isn't it?

I am here - you guessed it (you being me, because yes, I am talking to myself) - because I have work that I lack the creativity and words to do.

So let the wild self-indulgent rumpus begin.

I am generally good at reminding myself of the things I would like to do. Good at repeating to myself that I know how the next five or six years are going to pan out. But there are moments during which the certainty fades and I face a wall without a door. Never have I thought, being a wonderfully shy, prejudiced and fairly easily led child that I would wake up to being 26 years old and wholly afraid of the neverending mystery of the future. Which is exactly what I have become.

I have not written anything since my return from Paris (which I had planned to detail extensively) in this increasingly never visited blog because I never had the chance to. I went from le…

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