I've Been Feasting on Myself
on introspection, obsession, and feelings (?)
Dear whomever,
I am such an introspective person - always analyzing my thoughts and actions and trying to optimize my behavior. People often tell me that a weakness of mine is that I seem to act only on passion, but I believe that I have rounded that corner and somehow reached a point of automatism. I feel mechanical, sometimes. That idea scares me.
I lay on my bed before sleep and go over all my actions, all my words, all my phases through the day, and try to see how I can be better tomorrow. I dance as though a camera is pointed at me. I write like someone’s watching through the window. I read because I am supposed to.
I am feeling so much, my reader, that it’s becoming nothing.
It gets obsessive - I get obsessive - I am an obsessive thing - all of which is synonymous with I am a writer - I only know how to get hooked onto something, wild, and will only let go when I’ve beat it down to completion. That’s all I know. I take, I analyze, I mold, I merge, I let it go.
Sometimes there are periods where nothing is hooking me, nothing is scratching my brain enough to allow me to sink my teeth into it, and eat. Nothing is reaching for my heart. I hate these periods of almost-nothingness. Of an empty stomach.
I like eating. I’ve never felt guilty about overeating. It is the same for a lot of other things. I like taking, sure, but most importantly I like being given to. Set me a table. Allow me to feast. Watch me do so. It’s selfish, I know.
People mistake my sensitivity for selflessness. Everyone says, You care about others so much. It’s only my mother who clocks it, she’s the only one who sighs at my feelings of inadequacy, and says, Amal, the world doesn’t revolve around you.
Doesn’t it?
Regardless. Nothing is hooking me, lately, so I’ve gone inwards. I stare at my reflection for hours, I re-read my poetry, I edit my words. It is nothing but a feast of the self. I have nothing else to do. I want to be perfect. I am biting at the edges, Be better. I am bearing my heart for the world: Someone, take it.
But this is my constant state. Being a writer means you’re an editor, too, and what to edit when you don’t have words?
I have an extensive skincare routine, a hair care routine. I’ve learned to wax my body, since shaving is too slow. I don’t know where I want to reach - it’s not beauty, I think it’s understanding.
I wish I was religous.
It would give me a guide. A finish line. It would give me structure, understanding. I’d follow the rules well. I’d be a good disciple. I’d listen for God and truly, truly adhere to his standards. I’d make him proud.
life feels like nothing but a series of reintroductions,
Hey, I’m Amal. Hi Amal, she’s Amal. Hey Amal, nice to meet you, I’m the Real Amal. Amal? Amal?
I keep trying to unlearn this illness, this recurring act of eating myself: this constant act of ouroboros1. But myself, she never fills me. She is never enough. That’s the issue. Hello, Amal. Hey, Amal. Is this enough? It’s not. It’s really not.
They often say that we must fill our lives with a series of different loves: not just a romantic lover, but friendships, community. It takes a village, no? But my lovers don’t feel me as deeply, they don’t overwhelm me like I want them to. My friends neither. I want to be more. I want to feel full.
Maybe it’s masochism. Obsession is, at it’s core, a painful thing, and I like the hurt. I like to torment myself with the back-and-forth. I like to read what I write too many times it blurs, I like to kiss until my lips bleed. I like to love until I can’t take it anymore. What else? What else?
I touch my body. I regard her naked reflection. I pull her heart out of her chest and set it on the table. The world stumbles backwards at the sight.
Back to myself. I wonder what it will take to satiate her, and then feel some pride - that nothing ever will.
Good.
If you want the world, maybe one day you’ll have it.
Feast.
“Some of it is ugly, obscene and bestial, some of it is pure and holy and spiritual: all of it is myself.”
- James Joyce, to Nora Barnacle Joyce, 7 September 1909
With love, and obsession, and a painful need to impress you always,
Amal
PS: Write me a love letter, will you? I need it.
some additional thoughts:
I wrote this in one take, desperate to get something out. I have been working on several other pieces, but haven’t be able to get anything to make sense. I feel like I’ve forgotten English. Does anything make sense? I don’t know. I just miss you.
Thank you, for today, I have reached 250 subscribers. This number is hard to understand. It scares me (as you can see above). Forgive me as I overthink my work a bit more than I used to. Things are coming out of me much slower, and I’m trying not to get too frustrated about that.
Coming next week is an interview with my Egyptian best friend, following the comment section in my last post the invisible life of an arab girl. It’s going to be something new and different, but I’m worried it’ll come off a bit more professional rather than open and raw as are most of my pieces. Regardless, I hope you like it and enjoy the idea. I hope it’s interesting enough to allow me to keep interviewing my friends and offering their life outlooks in the future (they’re all so interesting). But more on that then.
Should I establish a posting schedule? Is there something other than letters you would like to see? Or should I just keep writing, haphazardly, into the void, towards you? I will probably begin scheduling posts - that’s the smarter thing to do.
Thank you, again, for subscribing, commenting, sharing. I know that 250 is little, compared to this huge world of social media. But every time I see the number go up, even by one, my little self screams, and I feel so grateful. As you can probably tell, I love to be seen, but it makes me shake a bit. Plus, I’m an overthinker. But aren’t we all?
This is the term for when a snake eats itself, "Ouroboros." The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon eating its own tail, often representing the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth, as well as the concept of eternity or self-sufficiency.
This is so real and beautiful!!
I will never tire of ouroboros as a metaphor… this was everything <3