Hopeless dreams

A dream without hope taunts us more than it comforts us.

It teases us with its distraction while we indulge in it, but reminds us that we believe we’re unworthy of it when we cast our gaze once more towards reality.

When we believe in our dream, we’ll find the signs and the opportunities to map our path towards achieving that dream.

But when we believe that our dream is unreachable or unrealistic, we’ll focus on everything that points towards a struggle, an obstacle, or an assumed impossibility in our desire to achieve it.

That’s how we harm ourselves. We convince ourselves that the good that we yearn for is out of reach. Or worse, we convince ourselves that we are undeserving of it.

If only we paused for long enough…took a deep breath…and realised that there are experiences we had in life that we never thought possible, but they came to pass anyway. Despite us not believing that they would.

Those are the experiences that inspired us to dream. And those dreams that they inspired are our truths that we know is possible if only…

Breathe beloved, and change that ‘if only’ into ‘when’, so that the dream that fills your heart in the quiet moments may find space in your life in your daylight hours.

Just breathe…

#hope #expectation #dreams #life #love #romance #companionship #soulfood #soulmates #anincompletelovestory #mybeloved #zaidismail #lovestory #authorsofinstagram #ownyourlife

Pursuit of servitude

I once asked myself a simple question when I left corporate to follow a new path. What do you do when you’re done with the world, but the world is not done with you? The two and a bit years that followed answered this question many times over, each time with an intensity greater than the last.

The answer appears to be very different from what I was expecting. Initially, I assumed that perhaps the world I thought I was done with was not my world at all. And so I set out to create the world, my world, that I thought was truer to my purpose in life.

Yet, here I am, contemplating again if this is really the world that I wanted to create for myself. When faced with the evidence of the sum total of my efforts, there are two ways in which I could respond. I could be generous and assume that I am still learning and therefore falling short of my goals is an inevitable part of that journey. Or, I could be brutally honest and recognise that perhaps my assumption of being able to claim a world for myself was born in arrogance.

The question that therefore needs to answered is not what to do with the world that may be done with me, but rather, what will it take to recognise my place in this world that is larger than I’ll ever be?

To know my place has always been the greatest mystery. There’s a combination of understanding who I am and what purpose I serve to others that continues to escape me. On both counts. My understanding of myself remains a well kept secret, and as for my purpose, I’ve always pursued roles of servitude. Therefore, any consideration beyond that continues to be a mystery.

My world must therefore be defined by that which demands my contribution. The moment I claim a recompense, I outstay my welcome and violate my purpose. The end result will therefore be inevitably unpleasant. Perhaps the question that I’ve been asking is the wrong question.

But, the answer lies in asking the right question. And if peace is associated with that answer, then it stands to reason that peace, along with my understanding of my place in that world, will continue to be an answer whose question I have yet to grasp.

Cryptic thoughts for a cryptic life. And peace has no part in it.

A walk…and a bit

I stepped on the treadmill today. It’s not my favourite pastime, but I did it anyway. At first, I recalled the time, many years ago, when I first attempted it and found myself winded in less than 3 minutes. I was still working in corporate. Life was lifeless, and purpose was found in servitude.

I travelled a lot since then. Mostly business travel. Staring down at the footplate of the treadmill, I found myself walking those streets again. The back roads of Nice, a short throw from the plush touristy area, the plaster was flaking off the walls of the apartment buildings, and the empty plots were unkempt and overgrown with weeds.

Then the cramped sidewalks of London, with its scarcity of smiles and less warmth to offer than its weather. I walked quietly through the neighbourhoods, distant from the bustling centre of wealth, and saw hints of warm homes and affectionately adorned window sills. The cold mist reminded me of my estranged nature in such scenes.

The quiet, unnatural streets of Jubail crept into view next, with fallen, premature dates melted and smeared into the sidewalk, and the mocking smiles from the police officers revealing their revolting oral hygiene. The thick air, laden with humidity and a scorching breeze choking me up as the treadmill continued its whine as I journeyed my way to the next city.

Tunis, with a touch of warmth, an uncanny sense of safety, and humility in large doses, prompted a hint of a smile as I recalled strange encounters with strange people. The trip on the metro passing Mandela’s stop, and the beautiful voices of the children singing their songs in Arabic each morning as I waited for the train to arrive. Probably the only wistful recollection of my time there.

The walk to China Town in Singapore, or to the Indian quarters, clinically clean and oddly cold. Buddhist temples and expensive shopping malls crowding all the open spaces, and cliques of old folks line dancing in the parks without a hint of interest in the rhythm to which they danced. Everything so detached and robotic, as if celebrating the privilege but disconnected from the experience.

And of course, traipsing the steps and the hills and tunnels of Monaco. Walking the length and course of the grand prix circuit, delighting myself like a little child as I recognised the bends and the straights from my hours on the PlayStation. But just as soon, the delight would fade to a subdued smile, and then nothing. Just a sigh.

You’re never lonely if you like the one you’re alone with, or so they say. So they say. An hour later, still barely exhausted from the spirited walk through my daydreams, duty interrupted my moments in foreign cities, each echoing the solitary nature of my life, and the isolation of my spirit. The photos and stories shared with others later on never compensated for the absence of one to share it with.

But, peace comes slowly and silently when we learn to embrace the inevitability of our lives, rather than yearning for what never was despite our best efforts. The sweat pouring down my face stung my eyes a little more than the subdued tears, as I realised the futility of tears that are left to dry on their own.

It was a long walk on that treadmill today. But there are still many streets to explore in stillness and isolation. Wanderlust has departed, and in its place it left a quiet composure of knowing that nothing more should be expected of what lies ahead. The weariness is finding its home in the same alcoves that were just recently filled with more. But it is an alcove and not a treasure chest. What visited briefly never intended to stay.

Thus, expectations are recalibrated, and life…life remains a stranger that prefers the company of others. Exhale.

Restless souls write

Restless souls write

Anxious souls read

Complacent souls pay no heed

And then there’s me. Fitting uncomfortably in each space, while not fitting in at all.

There’s a blessing in being anomalous. It spares us the slavery of living by rules.

But blessings don’t occur without burdens, and the burden of being anomalous is the restlessness that it spawns.

As we look around for familiarity, but only find much to scorn, we see the drudgery of the complacent and the fear of the anxious.

And in that is born our restlessness that stirs us from our sleep.

Once you’ve tasted the sweetness of living, existing feels like a curse. And once you’ve tasted the beauty of love, its absence feels like…nothing…it feels like nothing at all.

#life #authorsofinstagram #ramblings #rant #loneliness #lovestory #mybeloved #reflection #itdoesntmatter
#zaidismail #poetry #prose

Poetry of old

“Poetry often belies the age of the poet,

but always reveals the struggles of the soul.

What we write of youth, applies to old.

But most would rather resist it,

Than bear the truth be told.

I’m in love with life.

But I hate the world.”

It’s possible to live life romantically, you know. Despite the horrors and pain that appear to be so pervasive in this world, perhaps romance is the ultimate rebellion against the cruelty of life.


This is something that I wrote a few years ago, it still accurately describes my conflicted relationship with this world.

What you take from this, be it pessimistic, optimistic, or simply cynical, is a reflection of who you are and what your current relationship is with your world.

Yet, most will read into this what they believe to be true about me, not realising that what we see in others is a reflection of what we are hopeful, grateful, or bitter about in that moment.

How connected are you with your relationship with the world around you?

#poetry #romance #womansmonth #life #love #mybeloved #relationshipgoals #companionship #soulfood #soulmates #anincompletelovestory #zaidismail #lovestory #mentalhealth #mentalhealthawareness #mentalhealthrecovery

Blessed are the few…

Blessed be the gentle ones who love too fiercely,

Accept too easily

And hope endlessly.

The ones torn between duty and love

Or responsibility and passion

The ones who sacrifice quietly

But celebrate others loudly

The ones who when sad

Find joy in making others smile

Who serve willingly

But expect none in return

Blessed be they,

For they are the whispers of the heavenly breeze

Amidst the howling dogs.