I hate writing; I hate giving life to my thoughts. Somehow I’ve ingrained a belief that the moment we turn a thought into a written word, we confer it with new life and new meaning. That by writing, we privilege a certain reality, while erasing and excluding others.
Writing never comes naturally to me. I labour over every word, ever punctuation mark, every question, and struggle over my exclusions.
I hate January. I hate how it marks the end of a year of my life, and the beginning of another. I hate how it heralds the start of a new year, and the promise of fresh starts and beginnings it offers. Living beyond 25 was never in my plans.
But for 2014, I hope to focus my energy on the practice of living. To not think in terms of surviving a lifetime or year or month, but surviving a day, a moment, drawing in just one more breath. I hope to focus on feminism as a lived practise and daily struggle. I hope to turn my critique inwards. I hope to gain a deeper understanding of how living on the margins as a coloured, non-heteronormative, immigrant Muslim woman and depression feed off each other. I want to understand how they together contribute to the feeling of being stripped of humanity. I hope to work on my privileges and transcend the term privilege (more on that perhaps later).
And so I write to heal. I write to conceptualise a new praxis. I write to practise.