What If…

What if…

He always feels he is committing mistakes due to his haste in making decisions, stances, or even choices, and he tries to overcome this by assuring himself that what happened will not happen again — yet things do happen. He has often asked himself: why have I not learned from my mistakes? Am I inherently flawed? He knows that humans err, and that learning from error is the path to peace and calm.

Especially as the years of his life scatter through his fingers, leaving only a few grains remaining, playing between his trembling hands… He whispered: I am nothing but a man full of faults, and life goes on, and I sit on the wrong side of the table. There is no point in tormenting yourself over the past, even as it chases you like a pack of ravenous wolves. You have always checked your heart when doing anything, making sure you acted out of love. You always sowed longing, but reaped only wounds and scars upon memory.

He left his chair as if searching for answers elsewhere, but realized that this dialogue was drifting without anchor in a strong-current sea. He wondered: why are all these questions visiting him now? Is it the emptiness that fills his days, or is he regretting something? And regret is the second mistake we commit.

He found that his dialogue led to no solutions from within himself, as questions tangled together, and the inability to reach a convincing answer made him feel like a bird that cannot fly. He suddenly smiled and remembered that his years were filled with love, success, and adventure. His life bears mistakes just as it bears successes — and they are many — so why was he being so hard on himself?

He began gathering what remained of his emotional vitality, deciding to leave this dive into a weary memory. He rushed to open the curtains, and the descending rays of the sun on a summer morning told him that a new time was granted to him — so why return to a day gone by and forget his present moment? Without remembering that time is deceptive, happiness is not unattainable, yet something always seems to spoil it.

A thought came to him: to control what goes on in his mind — to push away unwanted memories and summon others, or to lose himself in his present moment. He found that this game suited his state, but how? He thought the best one to ask would be ChatGPT.

As the question was a game, the answer was puzzling: he sees that maturity is not about controlling memory, but about learning how to receive what it brings us without losing our balance. Like the sea — its waves do not always choose what they carry to the shore. Some bring shells, others bring weary wood from long journeys. The shore does not prevent either from arriving, yet it remains a shore, receiving what comes and then letting it continue on its way.

He did not find in the answer what reinforced his idea. Memory is not at our command — it surprises us by appearing uninvited, awakened by an old voice, a certain smell, or a moment long past. Perhaps it has its own life and privacy, like an old travelling companion.

Confusion overtook him, and he found himself unable to execute his idea. His mind began jumping from one thought to another like a stone skipping across a pond. But a question surprised him: is not a person merely a collection of memories? If they died, or if there were a way to erase them, who would he be then? Would he not become a person disconnected from his environment, his family, his people — lost, not knowing who he is?

He felt the spiral of these thoughts playing with him. A question gives birth to an answer, and the answer gives birth to more questions. Sometimes the answer changes depending on the angle from which you view it, or the matter as a whole.

He addressed himself: You, Ryan, are lost between your memory and your present.

Then he retreated to his library, looking at books that had become distant from his interests and others that remained close. The library contained many books, each one representing a different version of his life that he could have lived had he made another choice.

He was facing a test that began with a question: What if… he had married someone else? What if he had moved to a different country and pursued another dream? What if he had left journalism and studied medicine? What if he had traveled outside Iraq?

The novel, in its implications, revealed to him another face of the picture, another angle to look from. But a voice inside suggested that these were dangerous questions — diving into “what if” opens a door to the impossible and traps you in an endless maze of possibilities. Perhaps it was better for him to accept who he is and what he has made, rather than judge himself over choices whose time has passed and ended.