I admit I have a problem: I’m a perfectionist. Merely writing this post, or shall I say, deblitating over each and every word and sentence structure, is my problem in action. Yet, is it a problem? Is seeking perfection a problem? I don’t know. The reason that compels me to write this post is a recent “test” I had to take. Having revised and reviewed consistently over a period of time, I was sure it would be a breeze, and yet, I had the misfortune to overlook a couple of sheets of notes that could cost me dearly in terms of marks.

It seems strange. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, to write, and I’ve been committed to it for some time now, but it was only yesterday that I realized (while having spent a lot of time at work just writing) that a writer is what I am. I have probably no other fate than to be a writer, or to follow my calling without heeding other things. It is what I am.

I don’t know how or where it’s coming from, but as I walk, as I tread upon this earth, I look towards myself, my inner consciousness. I ask myself “where am I?” and “who am I?”. Do I look at the stars and see wondrous creation, behold the truth of the Almighty? Or do I feel doubt, fear and misunderstanding? I look at the world around me and I see nature: A breeze, the chirp of the birds, the rustle of the leaves and the smell of dust and pollen in the air.

Bahrain. That’s right. There’s an entire sentence– no, an entire paragraph or two, in that one word. As I told someone dear to me once: “Read between the lines.” Or in this case, read the bloody period that’s loaded with meaning. For it’s only with a doubly dose of healthy cynicism and sarcasm that one could endure living in a country festered with narrow-minded, self-righteous, conniving, and most of all, idiots-brought-up-by-idiot-parents people.

Twice as nice for half the price Why, is it? Go ahead, son, have some!

Maalouf’sIn the Name of Identityis a book that makes you say “uh-ha!” quite a lot. Some gems: “So am I half French and half Lebanese? Of course not. Identity can’t be compartmentalized. You can’t divide it up into halves or thirds or any other separate segments. I haven’t got several identities: I’ve got just one, made up of many components in a mixture that is unique to me, just as other people’s identity is unique to them as individuals.