How have fate tides swept us asunder?

June fever is an exceptional plant with bright yellow-green, softly shining leaves and thin, dark green edges. It grows slower but forms a perfect, even shape, great for shaded or partly sunny containers. A worthy investment. June's fever is the imminent headache associated with June. It has symptoms of severe insomnia, self-depleting depression, and inexorable black despondency. Its magnitude is directly proportional to its evolutionary iterations. There is a one out of three chance the June's Fever will be accompanied by all of the symptoms of a common cold, it will then be called Trivial June's Fever. It is great to pull down that latest shot. A worthy investment.

The original title of this post is in Arabic "كيف آلت بنا الظروف؟". In the pre-blog era, I had different stages of letting it out in a form of silent whimper. Before 2017, I used to write hundreds of Only Me posts where I do the same shit being done here. Between 2017 and 2020, I discovered the art of distractions. However, it was just a momentary painkiller. Then, I started writing burnt words, in documents that will be deleted or with paper that is to be rolled. I created this blog to see whether the randomized world matching would bring me someone who actually gets me. It did not. shit in public. Here, I am just screaming in vacuum fully knowing it is no different than talking to my mirror. Actually, talking to my cigarette would encapsulate more perception. Yeah, you know I am a stressed depressed narcissist who suffers to endure existence. Yeah, you may know I am a fucked up person who is spitting bullshit trying to adapt. Yeah, you know I start everyday undecided. Yeah, you can notice my life was being taken over. These patterns are not really hard to hide. I tried isolation, it did not work for me. I tried socializing, it did not work for me. To be frank, my only wish is to be somebody, anybody, but myself. It really all comes down to hate I guess. The only feeling that could be extrapolated is hate. Hate to every single one of you asshole fuckers, but mainly, hate to myself and the person who I am.

It is a long introduction, I know, but this post would be more personal than the usual reflective shit. I want to assert that I now understand that I'll never be understood. This post title was actually something a friend told me recently in a moment that felt like a checkpoint. That guy has broke all of his principles for pleasure. He said it ironically but it was apparent that it was fueled with regret. I never regret anything, but these words made me reflect for a second on how even though I hit most of the checkboxes set by none other than myself, I have not moved an inch. Progress has been decaying till it halted in 9th grade. In that summer, I was alone for around three months staying in my home by myself. The thoughts that were formed in those three months incorporated every single word I have written. They have directed each and every single action I have committed. My future was apparent beyond my eyes. The checkpoint that was saved at that time, by the horizon over the Nile, showed me darkness that was inevitable. Every time I look at the horizon the only thing that I remember is that exact moment. Those who know me a bit may recognize my periodic photos of the horizon that I post. "Aesthetic" they think. No one realized the amount of pain suffered each time I present one of those scenery photos with catchy songs. I remember how I lost the ability to connect to anyone. I remember how I try so hard to avoid showing that part of myself. Yeah, I break sometimes and shout in a restrained hushed cry for help. Unfortunately, saying that I am about to break would make everyone look at me different. My battles are mine to fight, I know. Life is shit and then we die, I know. That word salad is apparent and pathetic to be considered. I have been trying since that exact moment to express them in words but I could not. I would shout in the pillow trying to present my thoughts in words but I could not. I would try to cry to feel something but I could not. I know I can not cure that disease. At least, I now understand that I'll never be understood.

June's fever starts around the 23rd of June each year. The two single instances, since the 9th grade, where peaks were manageable, were last year and 2019. Last year, an accidental unintended meetup with my friends actually freshened myself up. They do not know how close were I prior to push the button, but that was exactly why it worked. They met me in my most frequent checkpoint pin randomly inches away from the eternal doom. Here again we thank The Art of Distraction. In 2019, when the fever hit, it was healed by a random gift from someone I was playing a videogame with. Even though I have never met him, but he was what healed the fever. Thinking about it, it was the last gift I have ever gotten if not the only genuine one. The June's fever lasts around a week, it is the only week in the year where I try to renovate and reevaluate connections. That is why it was called June's Period and Emotional Fever. You may notice how June's fever posts are the most revolved around interactions. They are the moments where I get reminded of my thin thread of connections. The highest matching connection was with my best friend but even though he tried, June's fever is inevitable.

As I stand here facing a trivial June's fever this year, gazing at the horizon once again, I can't help but marvel at the cruel fucked up irony of it all. The very view that once showed me the inevitability of my darkness now serves as a twisted comfort, a familiar pain that reminds me I'm still here facing a stream of shit tides like I'm fronting Seine. The June fever hits again, its tendrils of despair are felt and they are starting to grasp at my consciousness. I wonder, will this year be different? Will I find another unexpected momentary distraction from the relentless march of my own thoughts? Or will I succumb to the fever's embrace, allowing it to consume me as it has so many times before? I realized that my attempts to connect, to reach out, are like trying to catch a river's tides; the only thing I may grasp is shit. Those fleeting moments of understanding are just that – fleeting. They dissolve like morning mist, leaving me more alone than ever looking at the horizon. Perhaps the most painful realization is that even as I write these words, knowing they will be cast into the void as from your perspective it is just poetic depressive shit, I still harbor a tiny, foolish hope. A hope that someone, somewhere, will read this and truly understand. That they'll see past the words on the screen and glimpse the turmoil that rages beneath. But I know better. I've learned that lesson too many times. Crumbs will be realized by some, but that rotten loaf would not. Fungi have to consume you similarly to catch a glimpse. Unfortunately, the roots are still untidy, cluttered in a way that is comprehended yet not transcribable.

The checkpoint of that summer in 9th grade looms large in my memory, a watershed moment that divided my life into "before" and "after." I wonder sometimes who I might have been if those three months had never happened. Would I still be searching for connection, for understanding? Or would I be blissfully unaware of the darkness that lurks at the edges of my vision? Even though the prior shit was still existent, and by the assumption of completeness the same consequences were still derivable, would the expunction of that checkpoint have put a pause? In the realm of what if and might have been lies the abyss of regret, "would that have fixed me?" echoes as a haunting lament and a star reminder of unchangeable past.

As the peak of June's fever approaching if not already hitting, I find myself not bracing, but surrendering. Each year, the fever chips away at my resolve, eroding what little resistance I may have left. I've come to realize that there is no lifeline. I am beyond saving. The uncertainty that once felt comforting now feels like a cruel joke, a false hope that only serves to make the inevitable fall more painful. But both of us know that it will pass. As every June's fever, it will pass. As every shitty moment in life, it will pass. So I guess I will continue to post my horizon photos, each one a silent epitaph for who I was and who I am. I'll keep writing these words not in hope of understanding, but as a record of my slow descent. The tide of fate has not just swept me asunder; it has dragged me into the depths. I'm no longer fighting, no longer hoping. I'm simply witnessing my own dissolution, watching as each wave of June's fever washes away another piece of my identity. When the last remnant of who I was is gone, perhaps I'll finally find the peace that has eluded me for so long. Perhaps I will stop doing drugs and drinking alcohol to numb the pain. Or perhaps I'll simply cease to be, another nameless casualty in the vast, uncaring ocean of absolute shit.

Also, happy birthday to me, I guess?