I’m Tarek. I’m 35. I’m a multipotentialite with too many interests and a restless mind. I get distracted easily.

Language learning is my quiet passion. I’m not good at it—not yet.
But I love it.

Here, on this modest blog, I write for myself.

I used to write for imaginary readers. I imagined someone out there, watching, judging, expecting. I tried to polish every sentence. I showed off sometimes. It wasn’t honest. And I didn’t really improve—neither my language nor my writing.

So I decided to write to myself. To speak through ink and silence.

And in shā’ Allāh, I will arrive somewhere.

Why am I writing this?

To sharpen my language. My writing. My thinking.

For years, I’ve wanted to be a writer. I never knew what I would write—but I knew it wasn’t novels. I never had the courage to go all in.

I worked as a web designer, yet I longed for a craft with fewer tools, less clutter, more freedom.

I reached a point where I could no longer take orders. I could not keep building someone else’s dream—resizing their logo, adjusting their vision, shrinking myself in the process.

My distracted, hopping mind searched for a path.

Instructional writing—maybe I could explain complex ideas in simple words.
Copywriting—what a dream. Just my mind, a keyboard, ideas, slogans, paid for sentences.

Then the doubt: AI is evolving. How do I compete with a machine that can produce slogans in seconds?

So I thought—merge the passions. Writing and languages. Teach through words. Small books. Micro-lessons. Simple. Digestible.

Then another voice: Who would read you? People use apps now.

And so it goes. An idea at night, dismantled in the morning.
A wave of motivation, then a quiet crash.

Ping pong inside my own head.