The Art of Leaving

I walked into the examination room and asked if I could place my personal belongings, including the book I was reading, on the desk. Since January of this year, I have been obsessed with Murakami. I’m still going through all his books. The book I had with me that day was A Wild Sheep Chase. It is equal parts absurd, haunting, and somehow relatable.

When I start to write, I don’t have any plan at all. I just wait for the story to come. I don’t choose what kind of story it is or what’s going to happen.

— Haruki Murakami

I also started reading about him and his process. I always had this idea that conditions have to be perfect for me to write; Murakami disagrees. I adapted my writing based on three things he mentioned. First, Murakami says to write whenever, and write whatever, and see where it takes you. Second, he doesn’t have a grand scheme when he starts a book; he writes characters and then thinks about what this would character do in this given situation. The last is that he thinks in titles. He says before he knew what Kafka on the Shore was going to be about, the title flashed in his head. The title thing I used to do anyway, and the other two I’m trying to incorporate.

Fernando Pessoa, strictly speaking, doesn’t exist.

—Alvaro de Campos

Pessoa, on the other hand, gave me a golden key to the world of writing, which is creating a pseudonym. He wrote under dozens of pseudonyms. I’ve always feared judgment and failure. Handing my fake alias the weight of all the failures has allowed me to write more freely. Whenever that personality fails, I can create another one just like that. I recently got the idea to create more personalities beyond writing. I could get another number and pretend I’m my own secretary. That way, I can’t blame myself for mistakes or stumbles my secretary made.

He wrote under dozens of names, a practice – or compulsion – that began in his childhood. He called his most important personas “heteronyms,” endowing them with biographies, physiques, political views, religious attitudes, and literary pursuits.

—Richard Zenith

After placing my stuff, the nurse took my vitals. The doctor was pacing the hallway in what seemed to be an intense conversation. Still, I couldn’t entirely focus on my curiosity —I’d just left the office after 10 hours, and I still had to go back after the appointment. My brain was barely functioning. The nurse apologized for the delay, and I responded that it was OK because the longer I’m here, the longer I’m away from my desk at work. My entire body was held together by stress, about to fall apart at any given moment.

The doctor suddenly walked in after finishing the phone call. He immediately saw the book on the desk with my stuff. He introduced himself, and coincidentally, we had the same name, but it didn’t register in my mind. He then rapidly switched to asking me about Murakami—and again, I didn’t catch his question and asked him to repeat it three times. Getting desperate, he pointed at the book with his finger and said, “THE BOOK.”

After I finally understood what he was asking about, I was still a little unsure what to say; no one had asked me about Murakami before. The only reason I was introduced to Murakami was that the love of my life recommended Kafka on the Shore to me and then proceeded to block me afterward. I still think about her and why she chose that book specifically. She is very well-read, and she also chose the perfect book for me. I adored it. It hit every emotion, from discomfort, horror, lust, and grief all the way to ecstasy. It was also relatable to our own relationship, which is why I really needed to talk about Murakami with her, something that will never happen in this lifetime.

I have been complaining about not having a social life for a while since I moved back to Riyadh and that there aren’t enough people with the same interests. Yet recently the universe might have finally opened the dusty suggestion box I’ve been placing index cards with demands. In return I get more random encounters with interesting people.

Now the ball is in my court, and hopefully, I won’t choke.

That was always the first thing she said. It always irked me, but I never said anything because I had the new Catastrophe of the Week ™ to discuss with her. I know it was an online call, and technical issues can happen and whatever, but couldn’t she say something else? “How are you?” maybe? If I can’t hear her, I will most certainly say something immediately. 

She was a fantastic therapist, which pissed me off even more. Even though we never really got to make a long-term treatment plan, and I’ve been seeing her for almost two years —every week. This was partially because of me, as I was always trying to put out fires and consistently trying to run away from very slow dogs. Every week, there would be something urgent, and she would immediately ask if I could hear her. 

We had a few technical issues here and there, but overall, I could hear her fine, and she could hear me well —because now I made it a habit to ask her back if she could hear me. The second question was always, “How are you?” Now, this was more tricky to answer. Whenever someone asks me this, I have to figure out if they genuinely want to know or are we still in the formality stage.

You know, when you go into a doctor’s office and they say, “How are you?” you say, “Good, how are you?” Then they ask okay, so what’s wrong, and only then can you go on your rant about that weird sound your elbow makes sometimes. Tt this point in my life, I reply with the formality as soon as I get that question, but be warned, ask me again, and I will go into my Catastrophe of the Week ™ speech.

After establishing that we can both hear each other and that we’re alive and well, her real work began. She was relentlessly perceptive, and I take issue with that —I never want to be perceived. She cared for my emotions and preferences unless they prevented me from improving, so she continued to perceive me rampantly. She would notice the extra slouch in my shoulders or when my eyes considered the option of crying. 

It never stopped at perception; she had the audacity to include action in the bundle. She would tell me to put on something warmer if she saw the slightest hint of a shiver. She would always be right, but I couldn’t just let her be right all the time —not on my watch. I tried to slither away; “oh, I’m not cold. Maybe the camera isn’t working properly.” But we’d both know because we’re beyond checking for technical issues. 

Yet what annoyed me even more was when she used logic against me. Only I should get to wield logic against others, but it should never apply to me, I declare to myself, using my inside voice. She used what can only be described as witchcraft to turn my own weapons against me and then not allow me the decency to fire. With a few questions and sentences, I would be utterly disarmed. 

But her mortal sin, the most unforgivable act of the best therapist I’ve ever seen, was that she never talked about herself. I know exactly two facts about her: She used to be a teacher, and she does not reside within the city limits. The first part she willingly mentioned in her deplorable pursuit to make me a better person. The second was because I asked her how the weather was when I left the city for a week.

She replied, “Oh, I don’t actually live in the city.” Well, couldn’t you mention where you lived? It would have required the same number of syllables, but no, she would never give me the satisfaction. Her saving grace —other than being the only person on the planet who could get inside my brain and make it a better place— was that she occasionally laughed at my jokes, and in my holy book, that clears your slate. 

How I hated that question, but I wish she could hear me now.

My middle school physics teacher taught me an important lesson long ago. He said if you want to learn, don’t depend on anyone to teach you; chase after knowledge yourself. Granted, he said that because he did not like to answer our questions, and it was an easy way out.

People were always eager to give me advice. My dad loves the analogy of a dog chasing after me. Problems are like a rabid dog, he’d say. They will keep chasing after you as long as you keep running, but stop and face them, and then they’re gone for good.

He never really accounted for very slow dogs that would just linger around, their steely gaze locked on you from a slight distance. If you move towards them, they move back ever so slightly. If you walk away, they simply match your pace.

After this long and dreadful day, I merely wanted to see the stars. All day, I drove from one social event to another, wearing my fake smile and gesturing around with silly anecdotes. Still, the clock was ticking, and the dogs were salivating. I didn’t want to run away; I also didn’t want to face any kind of rabid animal —I simply wanted to exist.

I made it home, safe and sound, I assumed, but I couldn’t step outside of the car. The building door stood in front of me —a beautiful cyan color surrounded by white steel. It was what was behind that door that scared me. I knew they were there; you develop a sense after a while, call it a primal instinct.

After 20 minutes of idling, I opened the car’s sunroof; no stars. I thought to myself, maybe drive outside the city limits; surely there are stars somewhere —they can’t all be gone. With swift movements, I’m out of the parking spot that isn’t mine and onto the road that never wanted me there.

I drove south. I drove for hours. Not a star in sight. There were shimmering lights in the distance, though. At first glance, they might seem like stars, but as usual, I am sorely mistaken. They are ready to feast, and I have half a mind to let them. After all, what good is a sky full of stars if there are none to be seen?

This is where it all started. Almost exactly four years ago. In this exact room. This is where I got the phone call. I was destined for nothingness, then I answered my phone, it was my lucky break.

I loved my life here. I wouldn’t say I was happy, but I had my things, my stuff, my people, and my moments. I had some semblance of control, I had what I loved, and most importantly, I had things to hate. Not the real hate, the fake complaining hate.

That one phone call and the preceding email brought me to tears. Finally, I can fulfill my potential; I can become someone. For over a decade, people have told me I’m destined to do great things. I fell for it. I told myself that my life’s mission was to create something beautiful. That something was never defined, but I said that I would point at that thing one day and say, “I made that beautiful thing.”

Well, it’s been four years. I’m back here in the same spot. As soon as I walked into the room, I noticed two things. The AC was on. My dad woke up at 4 am not just to pick me up from a redeye flight but also to turn on the AC before he left for the airport so I would find a cold, comfortable room when I got there. The second is that the room was spotless. My mom was here a few days ago, she cleaned it up and made the bed. I immediately started crying. Emotions swirled around —anger, disappointment, appreciation, love, nostalgia, and none took the lead; they could only grapple and exchange blows.

I went around the room, touching my things as if absorbing back whatever life I left in them, hoping to feed off them, to become me again —maybe me from four years ago, maybe another me I haven’t met yet. The me that had a dream to create something beautiful and eventually point at it.

The sticky notes were full of ideas, the scribbles were around the room, and the notebooks were full of sketches. All the projects I started, the hopes and dreams that evaporated when I left —my mind replaced them with concrete blocks, too heavy to carry, tethered to my feet.

This is where I dreamed of all the things I could do, and I did do most of them, but at a cost. This room reminds me not just of the things I gained, the new and improved me, but of all the things I lost to get there. And now I sit here, and I wonder, was it really worth it? I gave up pieces of my soul for four years, hoping to create something beautiful. Now, I’m an empty vessel, walking around with no essence. I look around at my creations, and for the life of me, I cannot see any trace of beauty.

A strange urge, a novel feeling, a new desire. I can’t shake it. I need to tell someone. I need them to know how much I miss her. Though it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. People often complain to me about their love lives, and I say, “Time heals all.” We all think our love is special. All these other people in love? Posers. Only we had the real thing. A love that couldn’t be replicated in a thousand years across billions of galaxies.

I loved her. The way she talked; her tired eyes. Those abnormally long pauses in the middle of her stories. Her freezing hands as I try desperately to warm them up. How she got excited and threw her arms around, flailing about. Her laugh—how it filled me with ecstasy, recharging whatever was left of my broken soul. When she leaned into my chest, and I held her tight, calling her a moron. When she got drunk and became uncomfortably loud.

I loved her. Our love was different, but all the same.

I never expected to fall for someone this fast. She made me question everything—the rules I’d lived by for years, the morals, the compass, the understanding of relationships. I wanted to throw it all out the window just to see her face next to mine in the morning.

She gave me something more dangerous than hope, more wicked than enthusiasm, more insidious than anything I’d ever known. She gave me a taste of what could be, and that’s a drug with the most unforgiving withdrawal.

There was a look in her eyes that I’d only ever seen in myself. It’s not quite sad but more melancholic—a longing and nostalgia, but for what? I’m not sure.

I loved her, but that doesn’t change a goddamn thing.

Dear Grandpa,

This is my first letter. It took me so long because I tend to overthink things. I don’t know who I got that from. I need things to be perfect; otherwise it means I’m a failure.

I never met you, but my aunts and mom say I remind them of you. I don’t know how accurate that statement is, but I like to think it’s true. From whatever stories and pictures I can collect about you, there are definitely at least some similarities.

The most obvious similarity being photography. I think you took it more seriously than I ever did. I think we love it on the same level, but I never reached your level of practice for whatever reason.

I have been scanning all of your old photos and digitizing film reels. It feels like a trip through a time machine. A surreal experience where you feel nostalgic for something you never actually lived through. I hope you are proud of me for attempting to preserve your work. If nothing else, I love you for every picture you took.

Warmly,

Tarek

I woke up and saw her face, which was highly unusual to me; I smiled instinctively. Not many things come to me instinctively; sometimes I say words come naturally to me, but that’s a lie. I wanted to kiss her, to lace her face with my lips, but I couldn’t risk her waking up; I couldn’t risk seeing her wrinkled eyebrows. She seemed so far away but got closer with each second. I looked at her and asked myself, what is the appropriate amount of time to look at someone while they sleep? How close is too close to someone? Should I get up and brush my teeth before she wakes up? Would my getting up wake her up? My anxieties started to creep in, and I decided to close my eyes for a few seconds; I opened my eyes again as if my pallet was wiped clean; I felt the full force of her presence again, just like walking under a waterfall, then standing still.

She eventually woke up but didn’t seem equally happy to see me with my eyes open, a few inches from her face, smiling from a place I had forgotten. I asked her a question, and she mumbled without opening her mouth. She didn’t like to talk in the morning because she thought her breath was terrible, but I never got the chance to confirm that. I said she doesn’t have to say anything, but can I at least kiss her on the cheek? She smiled slightly yet reassuringly and nodded. I gave her a peck and got up to brush my teeth.

I stepped into the bathroom and immediately saw my reflection. It was time to step out from under the waterfall. I saw my face and realized why she wasn’t as happy to see me as I was to see her. It was as if the beautiful and the grotesque decided to meet halfway; you get the beautifully grotesque. I tried to wash my face, but the repugnance wouldn’t go away. With every splash of water, I open my eyes and, look at a different face, and splash again with more aggression. I splash one final time and attempt to walk away without glancing at the final face, pretending to have a modicum of control.

I went back to bed. The bed was the same size, but she was farther than ever. I know it was one of the faces I saw that got her to turn her face away from my own, but I could not tell which of them. Yet her power remained: for a brief morning, for a few beautiful minutes, she made me forget which face I had on. I had, maybe for the first time, in the presence of someone else, instinctively acted instinctively. It was never meant to be a permanent feeling; I hadn’t earned that yet, but I wondered in amazement, how one person, with her eyes closed, lying on a bed, facing a wall in a crummy midtown apartment, could leave this amount of happiness on someone she barely knows. She left traces of this wherever she went, and I let my mind wander; what if I had this power on someone else, completely unaware, staring at a wall in a crummy midtown Manhattan apartment.

Now, every time I wash my face, I wonder which one had made her fall for me in the first place, eventually muttering to myself that it doesn’t matter, as it was not enough to keep her. Still, I smile at the thought that I was ever enough for one beautiful night.

I’m sorry, but I cannot stay,
I have somewhere to be.
A beast called Kindness follows close,
She will not set me free.

She tempts me with her warm embrace,
But cold eyes tell a different case.
I’ve been lost for so long,
Soon I will be in a better place.

She says, “The sun rose for you today,
But for the last time.”
I must now leave,
Before I lose myself, I grieve.

They gathered here to celebrate me,
With joy and pure delight.
They are waiting for me, just out of sight,
Behind the curtain, into the night.

It took me a while to get going today, but two hours into my medical exams, I finally got a room laughing out loud. No medication, no caffeine, no food, and sleep-deprived, yet I managed. I don’t know where I keep coming up with that “all my charm is from my medication” nonsense. It was a pretty solid joke, too.

I’m back in the waiting room, waiting for my next x-ray, and the longer I wait, the more my mind fills with junk. An older woman is next to me, maybe in her sixties, but she is full of life. In what reality would I envy her? When it was time for her imaging, she struggled a little to get up. I jumped up and handed her her cane. She laughed it off and went with the radiologist.

When she returned to the waiting area, she sat down, took out her phone, and called her friend. They reminisced about the old days, and she kept laughing out loud. She laughed with her whole body, even stomping her feet when something was worth more than a booming laugh.

She interrupted her friend to answer another call from her daughter. Her tone changed, but she kept the same intensity. She asked her daughter if she had eaten yet, then launched into a 15-minute conversation about their favorite fast-food restaurants.

I could hear both sides of the conversation because the phone was on speaker. Their words replaced the junk in my brain, fighting for valuable real estate. I wondered if I could ever get to that point, where I would be in a hospital waiting room, waiting to see what new disease was wrecking my body, unable to quickly stand up, yet still full of vigor and echoing laughter.

She must be twice my age, and we both spent four hours of our lives doing this exam, yet the four hours passed very differently for us. While her laugh filled the room, I was wondering what it would feel like to take a potato peeler to my skin, peeling it off layer by layer.

A friend died last week. I claim an abundance of empathy, yet I can only write narcissistically. My entire collection of writing, every letter I jotted down, every verb, noun, and adjective, was an attempt to reflect myself, my perceptions, and no one else. My vocabulary, while occasionally vast and at other times severely limited, lacks any semblance of care for others.

A friend died last week. I sent him a voice note yesterday and told him that I was excited to be back in Riyadh to see him. When I woke up today, I saw a message that he had passed recently, with no further explanation. I wasn’t sure if it was his work phone or personal number or who responded. At first, I thought it was a sick prank from one of our insane coworkers because we always mess with each other without boundaries.

A friend died last week. He was a good man. I won’t pretend he was perfect—he had flaws like the rest of us—but he was a kind soul. I wonder if an unbiased observer or his loved ones would claim the same. During my first week, when I was an anxious mess, just starting consulting and unsure of my capabilities, he was the first person to sit with me and explain the entire project. Consultants are notorious for never having enough time, yet he dedicated a portion of his to ensure I had the right footing in this cutthroat industry. I owe him, among others, my success in the internship.

A friend died last week. Yet, as I write this and see the first sentence, I realize I somehow managed to make it about me. A good man is dead. He had just resigned and got a better job, was getting serious with his girlfriend, loved civilization, and was waiting for the new one to come out. His universe was unrelated to my own, and I played no significant role in his life.

A friend died last week. But I can only think of things in my own context. I first thought that he or someone else from the office was playing a prank. The second thought was that I would never get to hang out with him when I returned and hear his stories. The third was that he would no longer provide me with the professional guidance and support I had grown used to. Lastly, I wondered, since he was the same age as me, if it was something self-inflicted and if I could have been a better friend to him.

A friend died last week. Yet, reading back on what I just instinctively wrote, every paragraph is filled with “me” and “I.” His entire being evaporates in an instant; his soul leaves our plane of existence, and I can only think about how this will alter my life. Not his family, not his dad who lost a son, not his girlfriend who lost a partner, not his best friend who I instantly called to check if it was a prank or reality.

A friend died last week. And the extra irony-cherry on top is that while processing how I made it about me, I took it even further into my circle in the Venn diagram, to the point where his circle no longer touches mine. By extension, the self-hate grows into a lush forest that I planted, which I cannot escape.

A friend died last week. Yet I cannot love, suffer, hate, fear, dream, or even grieve for others unless there is a “me” involved.