Tag: love

  • A bitter ache

    A bitter ache

    Just as beauty is born of love, so too is bitterness born of loss.

    I wonder what of the troubles of this world is caused by broken hearts, rather than wilful greed?

    It is the sense of loss, or inadequacy in the eyes of those most cherished, that our worst behaviour comes to the fore.

    But there is value even in that.

    If not for still holding on to hope, such an expression of rage or harm would not have any purpose.

    It is only when we still have hope of our pain being consequential that we choose to share our discontent with the world.

    Therefore, it is not the raging lunatic that is most hurt, but the silent one who has no hope of being seen.

    Sometimes their silence is the build up to the storm of destruction that they need to unleash in their final attempt to be heard.

    But often, it’s the abandonment of dreams that perhaps the world really needed.



  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    The irony of a brain dump lies in the fact that it is my search for my brain that leads me to want to dump what distracts me from its use. Distraction creeps up, sometimes slowly with warning, but sometimes with devilish bravado unseating my senses and leaving me gasping for reality.

    Reality has never been a friend of mine. Each time I thought we were getting along, it slapped me in my face with a boulder. Not even a rock. As if a need to prove to me that living life in full measures means that life can only ever respond in kind. Kind. Now there’s a quaint notion that I hope to experience at some point.

    I find myself caught at the curious juncture of being invisible while simultaneously lacking the benefit of anonymity. It means that I can do nothing worth noting without my efforts being dismissed, while having a keen focus on everything I do that may be judged to be lacking. It echoes in terse tones my relationship with society for almost half a century.

    Someone guessed my age recently. They assumed me to be 30, instead of 50. Perhaps I did experience a kindness after all. But, they weren’t significant to the outcome of my life, so their generous gesture was lost against the rumbling of the thunder that was beckoning the next storm that threatened to roll over me.

    Crescendos of joy quickly obliterate the years of struggle. And the years of struggle return in anguished chants, mocking my half-smiles when that joy is unceremoniously ripped away. The vagueness of expression, at least, appears to offer me the comforts of an old friend. Pathetically, my oldest friend is a writing tool and not a being.

    Self-deprecation is such a luxury. I marvel at the possibility of being able to abandon life while indulging my self-loathing, oblivious to the unfulfilled duties and privileges that others have claimed. My fixation on fulfilling the same has left little room for claiming what I need. Even when I do, my attempts are so feeble that it lacks any convincing.

    The lock down has tested my philosophies and my resolve. Both have passed, despite neither serving me. It only ever serves others whom I cherish, but never me. I suspect I need to rethink my belief that the purpose of life is to serve others, and in such servitude we shall find joy. I think I missed something important in that. Of course, it’s difficult to convince myself of this being an erroneous philosophy because the joy I’ve experienced in serving that elusive significant other has rewarded me with a joy so divinely sublime, its fleeting moments serve to torment me for the rest of my life. Each expired second since it flitted by has in itself been a lifetime of torture.

    Love is for fools who have hope, live with hope, and believe in hope. Guilty on all counts. Only, when you live as precariously as I do, interpreting a love such as this becomes a mystery of its own. It’s the kind that cherishes deeply, loves intensely, holds endearingly, but releases gently. It’s the release that I need to work on. Perhaps if I didn’t make it so comfortable I may have more than a fleeting moment of divinely sublime joy.

    Divinely sublime. The divinity and the sublimation both beyond the view of the one who offers it. It’s a twisted tale of contorted cynicism that life has heaved at me in buckets, or more likely troughs. It is my grasp on the subtlety of beauty, or the hints of romance that breathe between her pauses and between her aches that horror has imposed. My subject of beauty focused on the horror, while I, in my romantic notions, caress with care the breaths and the pauses, seeing in her the divine where she only sees the pain.

    It’s a dance with destiny, with two left feet. Me being ill-footed while destiny laughs mockingly at my attempts to courts its lustrous beauty. I recede, full of angst, full of despair, but filled with joy in a conflicting sway of emotional upheaval that celebrates my ability to connect with the beauty that is so well hidden, while succumbing to the demands of the one who hides it.

    A brain dump, or a heart dump. The two are so intricately woven into the being of me that attempting to discern between them is as foolhardy as my hope of fully embracing the beauty that I see. Just there. Within my grasp, but out of reach. Like a mirage, it demands that I revisit moments past, not retracting my hand, fear driving my reach, while hope connecting my sight. Until it is in hand, it remains elusive. A mirage. But so real that letting go is impossible, while holding on is prohibited.

    As I slide further down this slope that extends from the recesses of my being, my efforts to dump that which clutters my thoughts only reveals the beautiful prose of life that it harbours. My contempt for it yet again misplaced, as I realise that I grew loathsome towards it for distracting me from my purposeful endeavours, while denying the reality that such endeavours were the distractions I needed to cope with the absence of what I buried so deeply.

    Once allowed into that haloed space, it can never be released. Only peered at quietly and solemnly in secret. It will only ever again be revealed to the one who reached its alcove without even knowing. Such is the miracle of two, cut from one. So natural is their embrace that the ease with which it satiates the thirst of the souls leaves no scarring, or evidence of its visit. Only the quiet confidence it instils in empowering the hesitant decisions that have long since lost relevance. But relevance is defined by what is yet to be reconciled. It is in such reconciliation of the hurts of the past that the present in discarded, and the future laid to waste.

    But hope. If not for hope harboured by the jaded fool who courts its pleasures far beyond its graveyards of happiness, the discarded gifts would forever leave the future wasted, and the past honoured. It is the jaded fool that disregards such constructs of nature. It is the jaded fool that seeks the divinely sublime, despite the backdrop of horror that threatens to disembowel any attempts to be glorious beyond the measures of the past. It is the jaded fool that resurrects the romance that love courts, or the love that romance beckons. If not for this fool, much will be spent in futility.

    Some believe this to be the words of a writer. One who is perhaps endowed with the ability to express what others struggle to contemplate. However, it is more truthful to note that these words are of the one who pains to express clearly the lyrics of his soul, in the hope that its mate will pause for long enough to see the truth of what can be.

    [If you’ve read all the way to this point, I am duly impressed and saddened. For anyone to connect with these words, you must first connect with my pain. Blessed be the gentle ones who love too fiercely, accept too easily, and hope with futility.]

  • In celebration of women

    In celebration of women

    On this Women’s Day, here’s a message to the men out there.

    If you have that special someone to share this day with, consider yourself blessed. Women don’t love selflessly unless they commit fully.

    If their passion scares you, don’t grow defensive or feel threatened. Draw strength from them. They see in you what you don’t see in yourself.

    They see you beyond the failures of your past, or your feelings of inadequacy in your role as a father, brother, son, or husband.

    When they inspire you to be more than you are, it’s not because they think you’re not good enough. It’s because they believe that you’re worth so much more. And they want you to be all you can be.

    It’s not weakness to show your heart to her. Weakness is found in protecting yourself from being discovered because you are afraid of not being good enough.

    When you protect yourself from rejection, you deny yourself growth. When you deny yourself growth, you deny yourself the fulfilment of embracing the very love and companionship that you desire in life.

    A woman is driven innately to nurture, and nurturing automatically inspires growth. So perhaps the tension between you and your partner is because she sees how much more you can be together, and you’re afraid to embrace that reality from fear of not being able to make the cut.

    I know of men that would kill a bull to be in your position. And if you find it difficult to understand her, try to understand the men she had in her life before you. Including her father, or other male figures. The ones who treated her badly, or denied her a voice.

    The sad reality is that there are a few good men who have to bear the burden of the many who have lost themselves to the ego of society.

    I hope you choose to be part of the few. If you choose this, you will have the best of what this world has to offer by way of companionship and fulfilment of purpose.

    To love, without restraint, and to be loved in return, is the greatest gift. Don’t deny yourself this gift by protecting yourself from a weakness that only you believe in.

    And to the women, don’t stop believing in yourself. But recognise that when you judge a man by the standard of those who came before him, you have yet to fully heal from the harshness of your past. Don’t make a good man bad by holding him accountable for something that he had no part in.

    And men…don’t make a good woman bad by expecting her to make up for the gentleness and compassion that you were denied by those who came before her. Including your parents.

    Cherish each other…and gaze upon each other in the same way that you want to be seen. Anything less is an injustice to your soul, and to the beauty that is waiting to bloom between you and your partner.

    Have a blessed Women’s Day.

    Zaid Ismail
    Author | Life Coach

    #womensday2020

    https://youtu.be/ZYRfUoR9Q4Y

  • Cherished to death

    Cherished to death

    When love is a well kept secret, it becomes torturous

    When love is embraced, it emits a glow that keeps the darkness of the world at bay

    When we withhold our love from fear of it not being enough, we destroy the very object of our affection

    Thus, self deprecation cherishes beauty in silence, but leaves to whither and die, the object of its cherishing

    It is the doubts we harbour of our adequacy, that undermines our resolve to be beautiful

    In our efforts to hide from the world our fear, we lose sight of those who see in us what we don’t see in ourselves

    Those same souls who worship our beauty, but are discarded through our fear, are the souls whose hearts we cherish…silently

    Our belief that they do not need our embrace as much as we wish they would embrace us, is what leaves them cherished, but discarded

    Even the most cherished of hearts, if left without a home, will die of exposure.

    Perhaps this is why the good fades from our lives, as we hold on to the bad that we believe is not fair to place as a burden on others…

  • Empathise

    Empathise

    Empathy is expressed when we desire for others what we wish to have for ourselves.

    Sometimes, it’s something we have, and we hope that others will be able to enjoy the same value and benefit that we enjoy from it.

    Sometimes, it’s what we don’t have, yet we hope that we may be able to contribute towards others having it, despite having no reason to believe that we’ll be able to experience it ourselves.

    Empathy is founded in our desire to alleviate our struggles that we see in someone else’s life.

    That struggle could be something we currently experience, or something that we have experienced before.

    It is core to our humanness, and only gets tainted when we respond with bitterness, hoping to see others suffer or struggle in the same way as we may have. Either at their hands, or at the hands of those whom they represent in our life.

    Empathy is the difference between peaceful acceptance, and bitter vengeance.

    Like that old proverb says, a bitter heart eats its owner.

    Protect your heart from the bitterness of this world by practicing empathy instead.

  • A Brain Dump

    A Brain Dump

    The short posts don’t allow for a meaningful purge of what rumbles inside my head. And there’s a lot of rumbling this morning. Having finally published my novel, the reactions I’ve noted along with the assumptions that people make about my reasons for doing so, are entertaining. I’ve always taken a morbid pleasure from watching people sum me up incorrectly, or assume to know what drives me. I barely know myself, so it’s highly improbable that anyone else will know either.

    Despite my efforts at explaining myself, sharing my passion, living out loud, and scribbling my thoughts in digital ink for any passerby to read, I still remain a well-kept secret. A colourful life such as mine is intimidating for many to grasp. It’s much easier for them to find random points of entertainment instead. Of that, there is an unlimited supply.

    However, it only serves to be morbidly entertaining if the ones who are peering in have no significance in my life. What then when one held dear takes a closer look and feels afraid? Those are the moments when the introspection shifts from morbid curiosity to flirting with regret. Being trusting has earned me more struggles than deliberate betrayals ever did.

    When philosophy teases us, we play with words that talk of the strength of character of those most burdened by the trials of life, but when reality demands that we embrace them, we recede from fear of contamination. Sometimes, we recede from fear of feeling burdened by them. But from afar, from a safe distance, we admire and celebrate their resilience, as long as they keep their resilience to themselves.

    The irony of society is that it will be more inclined to offer itself to one who appears untarnished so that it may experience the process of being tarnished by the experiences of life with them, rather than to revel in the joy of one who has already been polished by what once tarnished them. It’s the equivalent of wanting to marry a virgin, but hoping to have the sexual experience of a seasoned whore, and then realising that the whore may be more pleasurable, but looking for one who is still virginal in demeanour. We really are an entertaining bunch, aren’t we?

    Sometimes it seems like we’re hypocritical in our approach to establishing or respecting respectable standards, but that hypocrisy is easily defended when such standards become our own to defend. Fear of the future has tainted many well-meaning men, and suspicion has destroyed many loves before they were allowed to bloom.

    Words have been elusive, except in unpredictable bursts of late. The topics have been revealing, teasing my soul and flirting with my audience, but largely unfulfilled either way. Fulfilment continues to be a slithery one. Testing everything that I assumed to be true, and teasing it with new experiences and emotions that have long been dismissed as taunts of fairy tales.

    Poetry has been a bipolar friend. Sometimes testing my skill at articulating the melody of my mindlessness, and at other times distorting my words to reflect the angst that defines my madness. Between mindlessness and madness, love is cradled in a delicate hammock, ready to tip over at the slightest sway, but even in its tipping over, offering laughter and joy in unexpected waves of delight that distract me from the sand in my face.

    The ambivalence of life digs ever deeper. Joys grow more intense with each ravaging of happiness that passes, only to be followed by yet another crescendo of joy. Each time, the crescendo exceeds the previous pitch, creating an ever-deepening cavern into which to plunge when the joy is tainted. From depths of despair to wings of angels, peace is elusive. But peace fades from want in the presence of such joy. If only the joy would stay, perhaps then it will inspire a peaceful serenade of a life waiting to be indulged in hues yet to be seen.

    An interesting life leaves a kaleidoscope of scars that form beautiful patterns in the stars, as we imagine constellations of soulful connections in spaces that remain empty and lifeless, if not for the gaze of the beloved into that realm. My vocabulary fails me much. Yet another double-edged dagger, fulfilling my need to articulate more closely what my heart yearns for, yet denying me attachment due to my increasingly complex expression in my efforts to be understood. Finding the most articulate words to describe in the smallest phrases has birthed the epitome of sophistication through minimalism. Only such sophistication serves no good end in the absence of one who seeks to understand, or heaven forbid, to embrace.

    A dump indeed, this has been…but not of the brain, and more of the heart. A strange encounter.

  • To be loved…

    To be loved…

    Love, without understanding, is mere infatuation.

    To love, is to see the strength that created such beauty, not just to admire the beauty.

    To love, is to caress the scar with a gentleness that honours the pain that caused it.

    To love, is to see the pain that sometimes distorts the beauty, without devaluing the beauty.

    To love, is to see, before needing to be seen.

    The profession of love, without truly knowing who is being loved, is a profession of need, more than it is an embrace.

    It is when our need to be understood by our beloved exceeds our desire to understand them first that love makes a silent exit, and entitlement replaces it.

    To truly love, you must first seek to understand, because understanding demands that you pay attention to your beloved, before you feel a need to demand their attention for what you need instead.

    Be loved. Be blessed.

  • To be loved…truly

    To be loved…truly

    Three things that make us whole…

    To be seen… Beyond the facade. To have the essence of who we are, known to those we trust and hold dear.

    To be heard… Not only when we cry out, but also when we speak gently of the troubles in our heart.

    To be loved… For more than how we make others feel, but to be loved for what we need in return, without having to claim it.

    In that order, because a voice without an identity is not a voice. It’s only a whisper in the wind.

    A face without a voice is only window dressing, or a trophy. And not a complete being.

    And love… Love without a reciprocal embrace…an embrace of what we hold within, as well as what we willingly give, is an empty love that taints towards bitterness, rather than beauty.

    Love beyond lust or infatuation is rare. True love is never abandoned.

    I see you. I hear you. I love you. Three of the most valuable gifts you could ever give. But, you cannot give what you don’t have. For this reason, you must first see, hear, and love who you are, before you will be able to share it with another.