TSOHON ALKAWARI

About this Novel

On the twenty-eighth day of April in the year Two Thousand and One AD, which happened to fall on a Wednesday, I woke up in a state of confusion. My mind was a jumble of thoughts, and I found myself searching for inspiration, but alas, I had lost the ability to write. I had been sitting there since around ten o'clock in the morning, with a book open in front of me, staring at its pages until two in the afternoon. My brain felt utterly devoid of ideas, filled only with useless thoughts. I sat there, tucked away in the closet of my room, holding a pen in my hand, absentmindedly rolling it like a cigarette. Eventually, I gave up and placed it aside, feeling frustrated and anxious. "What's wrong with me?" I wondered aloud, my gaze unfocused, unable to even see the words on the book's page. I couldn't muster a smile or form any coherent thoughts. My schoolbooks lay abandoned, mocking me with their blank pages. I felt as if I were grappling with an insurmountable creative block, unable to put words to paper, and the hours passed without any progress. In my frustration, I decided to step out of the house.