I've often gotten the feeling that i live in a scrap book of my life; a book of initially blank unlined pages that i fill with doodling and pictures, poetry and prose, articles and blabbing, signatures here and there. It's a weird feeling, i don't know if everyone feels like this, i suspect i may be more self absorbed than most or more caught up in the intensity of my own life than most. Do most people constantly think about where they are and what they've done and where they've been? Do most people have a checklist for experiences to be had by 20, 30, 40, etc...? Do most people wonder how many lives they could live in the one life? Is everyone as weird as i am so often accused of being? Is everyone as selfish and stingy with their time? I realize that is the driving force behind my reluctance to commit to things that are too constraining, does everyone have the same reasons?
My scrap book is like a mission to me, i.e. the livelihood and activity of my life in itself is like a mission for me. After years and years of facing fears i have come to accept that my ultimate fear is that of being bored, or feeling that i could be feeling/doing more, nothing terrifies me more than the possibility that i am not experiencing what i should, be that in terms of people, places, dreams or work. It is recurrently on my mind that i have not started that book, started a writing path, lost that extra weight, been to Barcelona, bummed around Latin America, lived on an island for a few years, seen that dance show i love, bought my studio on the beach, taken love to the extremities of tests and passions. It is my ultimate fear that my scrap book not have pictures of all my dreamed of destinations, descriptions of all the people i should meet, stories of all the adventures there are for me, scribblings and doodling of a person out there in the world seeing and doing it all.
I've been feeling unsettled and unbalanced since i got back to Cairo, i think i finally know why... Cairo overwhelms me with tasks, traffic and obligations that it takes me away from my scrapbook, it takes me away from the me i cherish most, the me that puts memory next to picture and doodles on the side to compile her book of life. I have realized that i am happiest in my scrap book, two steps back from the world. Am i so very weird or does anyone relate to this?