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Thursday, July 24, 2025

The Strange Art of Failing

Riyadh – No Date. Time has become irrelevant.

There is a certain silence in this city that doesn’t come from peace, but from indifference. The buildings are tall, the roads are clean, but no one here knows your name. You can disappear between the prayer calls, and no one will notice. I used to think effort guaranteed progress. But I’ve come to learn—progress is often blind, and effort is often wasted.

Every morning, I wear the same shirt, ironed carefully, as if creases could decide my fate. I walk to places where no one expects me, hand over a CV like it's a sacred offering, and leave with a smile that costs me more and more each day. At first, I thought rejection hurts. But now I know—what hurts more is becoming numb to it.

There are days when I question if I exist at all. Not in the way of flesh and breath—but in the way that matters. To walk among people and feel invisible is a slow kind of death. No gunshot, no wound. Just erasure. Bit by bit.

I have not found a job. But worse, I have not found a reason to believe that I still will. Hope has become a burden—something I carry out of habit, not faith. And yet, I still carry it. Not because I believe in it. But because I don’t know what else to hold.

Some men die of disease, some in war, some in accidents. But there are also those who die in waiting rooms, in recruitment offices, under the weight of unanswered emails and ignored handshakes. I am becoming one of them—a ghost created not by death, but by delay.

They say the world owes you nothing. But I wonder, should it not at least acknowledge your effort before it swallows you whole?

Inaam

June, Jeddah

I’ve been feeling tired in a way that rest doesn’t fix.

Not just in my body — something deeper. A kind of quiet fatigue that’s hard to name.

Each day feels like a copy of the last. I wake up, I go through the motions, and I wait for the day to end.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for anymore.


Nothing is wrong, really. And maybe that’s the strangest part.

No tragedy. No big reason. Just this slow, steady fading.

Like I’m slowly disappearing from the inside out, and no one can see it happening — not even me, until now.


I’ve stopped feeling connected to things I used to love.

Everything feels a little distant. A little muted.

I see people talking, laughing, planning, and I feel like I’m standing behind glass, watching it all happen without being part of it.


There are moments where I forget who I’m supposed to be.

Like I’ve been performing some version of myself for so long that I don’t remember what’s real anymore.

It’s not painful, not exactly. Just... empty.

Softly empty. Like a room no one goes into anymore.


I don’t want to make this dramatic.

There’s no message here, no secret meaning.

I’m just writing this because I needed somewhere to put the feeling.

Because sometimes, saying nothing gets heavy.


-Inaam

13th July 2025 (Jeddah)