I am nothing. A loser. Some of you reading this might think I’m something special—a so-called “idiot savant.” But let me tell you, the people who think that are probably wrong.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to write this book, and I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Deep down, I don’t care about anyone. I’m selfish. It’s just… something changed.
When I became Muslim, I read something that shook me: “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.” That stuck. I couldn’t ignore it. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was something deeper, but I started thinking, What if I could give others what I’ve always wanted? Not money or fame—those things are worthless—but a sense of purpose, a direction.
Even then, I didn’t start writing for you. I started because of the trust given to me by a few people, the members of a small club I belong to. They believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. That’s why this exists—not because I wanted it, but because they trusted me to do something meaningful.
A Life of Contradictions
My life in Marrakech is insignificant. I walk the streets like a ghost, blending into the background. No one notices me on my $100 bike, the same streets where tourists pay thousands for a single night’s luxury. It’s ironic, isn’t it? A city bursting with life, color, and chaos, and here I am, a nobody in the middle of it all.
But maybe that’s how it should be. I’ve lived through moments that felt significant, moments where I thought I mattered, but they always passed. Fame, recognition, importance—it’s all temporary. Walking these streets unknown feels more real. It’s like the city itself is reminding me: You are nothing.
Pain and the Unspoken
There’s a pain I feel every day, and it’s always there. A weight that doesn’t lift. It’s not physical, but it’s real. I won’t tell you what it is because it doesn’t matter. Pain is universal. We all carry something, don’t we?
Some days, it feels like it’s too much. Like I’m drowning in it. But other days, it’s just… there, like background noise. You get used to it, even though it never really leaves.
Maybe that’s why I write. Not to heal myself—I don’t think that’s possible—but to let someone else know they’re not alone.
The Truth
So, let me be honest. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to write this book, share these thoughts, or lay myself bare for strangers. But here I am.
Maybe I’m writing this because I’ve run out of excuses not to. Or maybe because, for all my selfishness, there’s a part of me that still hopes to fulfill that verse. To love for my brother what I love for myself, even if I don’t always understand why.
I don’t promise you anything extraordinary. I’m just a man, walking the streets of Marrakech, wrestling with his own insignificance, and trying to make sense of it all.
This book is not about me, though it might feel like it. It’s about you. It’s about us. And it’s about the strange, painful, beautiful chaos we call life.
So let’s keep going.