Drama follows me. Or I create it subconsciously. I don’t know, but it’s almost always there.

And I thrive off of it.

I just killed a face. But she’s not dead. She was real, but not the real I care to emphasize anymore. I wasn’t sure if that’s what I was going to do; kill her. But drama showed her ugly face and I was left without a choice, really. I’m trying to prevent it this time. My efforts will do me no good, thanks to Google cached, and the fact that all my details are already in the hands of the wrong person, should they decide to pursue it.

I write. And I write a lot. I’ve always kept journals, blogs, and the like. I write fiction and reality, I write poetry and stories. I started writing an autobiography. I never completed it because I realized the consequences of publishing that book would be far too big for me to deal with. The uncompleted version was left in the hands of an aspiring, American author, wishing to write about the relationships between Westerners and Arabs in the United Arab Emirates. The authorities caught up with him. They confiscated all his files before requesting he leave the Emirates and never return. He’s gone now. But my writings, contact details, name and everything else is now with them.

But I can’t stop writing. So here I start again.

This time there are no comments. This time, I don’t want your rash thoughts or opinions. This time, if you have something to say to me, concerning something I’ve written, you can email me. Maybe this time, before your words reach me, you’ll have the chance to think about what you want to say.

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