Nothing much has happened since our last conversation. Our discussions, carefully crafted by characters colliding into each other's cyberspace, seem so distant, like days preceding colonialism. In Doha, time's only competition is the relentless buildup of sand on picturesque dunes tucked away neatly behind bulging buildings.
Days slowly slide into each other to perfectly complete the picture of bland nothingness comparable only to Obama's next diplomatic delight. Writing under these conditions is a gut wrenching experience where the mind wrestles to grab metaphors out of nothing to color the white bleached dishdashas (traditional Arabic robes) dotting the desert.
I am falling victim to the mind numbing silence that so loudly permeates through my soul. My thoughts revolve around the play by play developments of days gone by. The coldness of my drink seems to worm its way deeper through my mind than the state of affairs shaping the new face of global fascism looming over our lives.
It has been almost three months since I made what seems to be an ill advised move to this corner of the world. Promises of exciting employment have yet to materialize, leaving me with a sense of non-accomplishment and misdirection.
A potential trip to Baghdad could salvage the losses suffered during this time, but such a trek seems tepered by a lack of funds, and more importantly, a shortage in support from my family, who is pushed further away from the idea by the recent spike of explosions in Iraq's capital city. There is still a possibility that I will be able to lose myself, and potentially my life, in the place I love the most, but much energy will need to be spent to achieve such gains.
I feel like I am writing out the final chapters of my life, not because of the dangers dug deep in my return from diaspora, but because of the rustification of my mind. An invasive dose of Arab satellite television and an illuminating aura of individualism seem to be decorating my grave right before my eyes, and under my dirty fingernails. Also, there is always the small possibility of death that accompanies each trip I take on the lonely accessible taxi in Qatar equipped with a wobbly weary worn down electric lift that seems ready to crumble on any given day.
A series of recent pilgrimages to the hospital could also be accentuating my mortal melodrama. Seeing the faces of hundreds of broken down construction workers wandering the halls of the country's central medical facility acts as a humble reminder of the privilege we possess, always prettily posing as the nature of things.
Perhaps it is here, where the corrosion of one's mind collides with the atrophy of our physical state, that the soul truly dies. May tomorrow bring life and inspiration to those who need it the most: me.