Yes.
I have cried.
Amongst the people who know me I keep giving the so wrong impression. A fellow blogger, one of the few sweet non-progressive ones, asked me if the reason I wanted to stop is because I was afraid of what I might say.

She's probably right. I'm too afraid.
I hate to seem desperate. I hate being fragile.
I lie to myself to be happy, to smile. I keep telling myself, I'm fine. I'll make it.
I keep telling myself that perhaps the more I lie, the further I'd get from the truth.
Outside the blogosphere, I'm the cold, unemotional guy who wouldn't get shaken by anything.
They don't know me. They don't know this.

Yes.
When I was a teenager, like most of our generation, I have been suicidal. I even sat on a ledge once… but then I looked up and smiled.
There is still hope, I tell myself.
I lie to myself to be happy, to go on.
I ain't suicidal anymore. I've matured and grown.
I know what it takes to be a man.
I know what it takes to bury things.
I know what it takes to burn old pictures and smile.
But the more I smile, the faster I run back to where it lies. I find myself digging deep like I'm digging for gold.
Gold ain't what it is though.
I too dwell on the past.

Yes.
I have been crushed several times.

Yes.
I usually find myself recovering from it all and moving on.
Such is life, right?

Yes.
I had dreams once.
When I was 12 I had a good voice. I wanted to be a singer/songwriter. My dad never got me the guitar I wanted. He got one for my sister though. She never played it.
I promised myself never to touch it.
So far I haven't.
I'm 25. It's been lying there for 12 years.
Untouched.
I wish I was that guitar.

Yes.
I hold a successful job and my career is blossoming.
I work at a bank. I've been working there for over three years and I'm one step away from being promoted to a supervisor.
I hate my supervisor. I hope he gets hit by a meteor.
I hate my job. It lacks creativity and development.
It's basically killing me. I'm too good for it, but… well… Masr omm el donya.
I came tenth in college. It took me a year and a half to find a job, last among my colleagues.
I lacked WASTA.

Yes.
I smoke.
I'm a heavy smoker.
I smoke almost two packs a day.
I'd quit if I had a reason to.
I smoke because I choose to be a smoker.
I smoke more than ever in private. A small idiot inside tells me that I do it intentionally for the reasons written in bold font on the cigarette pack.
I choose not to listen to that idiot.

Yes.
The list is too long it hurts.

Yes.
I lie to myself to be happy.

Yes.
I'm fine.