Tag: romance

  • To be loved

    To be loved

    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.

  • Torturous love

    Torturous love

    And so it is…love and torture have always been stablemates.

    Sometimes, without warning, someone enters your life and challenges every assumption that you ever made about what’s possible.

    What you thought you deserved was limited to what you were capable of achieving up to that point, and maybe just a quiet desire to acquire some peace beyond it.

    Until they see in you what you thought was your own delusions, and you see in them what you thought were only your dreams.

    Once you connect with that truth, nothing can convince you that anything less is what you must settle for.

    Settling becomes a vulgar thought, and fulfilment becomes incomplete without them.

    When that happens, the distance between love and torture grows, and you find yourself stretched between the two, with only shards of sanity to prevent you from being torn apart.

    Those shards will tear at your dreams and taunt your delusions until their embrace is secured.

    Until then, life becomes a dyslexic dance with insanity, and love remains elusive.

    (From the archives)

  • Respond with poetry

    Respond with poetry

    Responding in kind to the trials of life only gives those trials more power.

    Instead, be the eternal romantic.

    Look for the starry sky in the darkness, or the glow of the sunshine behind those grey clouds.

    Romance is not about sharing a moment with another.

    Romance is about embracing a moment for yourself despite the ugly around you.

    Be romantic without waiting for permission.

    Let your response to life be the poetry that uplifts the world.

    There are enough prose writers out there.

    We need more poetry…

    More beauty…

    More sincerity…

    More authenticity…

    Prose is our need to be heard, to be validated, and to be seen.

    Poetry is our gift of everything that is beautiful and gratifying about life.

    If you have the ability to create goodness and peace, that is your ability to write poetry on the timeline of your life.

    Be poetic. Be romantic. Be you.

    Own Your Life.

  • Daydream your life away…

    Daydream your life away…

    Sometimes we lose ourselves to nostalgia to the point of disconnecting from the life that we have.

    Good memories are great, as long as it’s not a reason to take our current blessings for granted.

    Many of us are so fixated on the life that we once had, that we neglect the people and the quality of life that we have now.

    Sometimes, in fact often, we even neglect our health, because if we don’t have much to look forward to, there’s not much point in taking care of ourselves. Right?

    Wrong.

    When you only take care of yourself on special occasions, you’re taking yourself for granted the rest of the time.

    Memories are created between those special occasions more than on any specific occasion itself.

    When we hear of the good old days, we don’t hear of weddings and birthdays. The majority of the stories are about the wholesome and uncomplicated lives that we once lived. The family bonds, the solid friendships, the lekker meals and adventures.

    If you find yourself only celebrating life on special occasions, you’re taking yourself and your life for granted.

    Worse than this, you’ve probably lost your self-worth to how you want others to see you, and you don’t see yourself clearly anymore.

    You reclaim your life by reclaiming the present moment.

    But you can’t reclaim the present moment if you don’t see value in it.

    And you won’t see value in it if you spend your days longing for the past.

    Live romantically. Now. Not in the past. And your life will be everything you dreamed it could be.

    It always starts with you.

  • Turning pain into beauty

    Turning pain into beauty

    Shortly after I published my novel, An Incomplete Love Story, I remember asking if I finally had permission to post romantic, or mushy stuff. The responses were entertaining and generally positive.

    The most common question I get is whether it is based on true life, or is it fiction. Suffice to say it’s a dumbed down version of true life, because as they say, life is often stranger than fiction.

    Besides, where would be the fun if you knew for certain what in the novel is true and what is from my imagination?

    There are people reading this who still cannot believe that I am capable of romance. The bewildered look on their faces will always be a source of entertainment for me.

    Don’t allow the opinions of others to limit what you allow yourself to explore as self-expression, or as life goals.

    Here’s a piece I wrote a year ago.

    “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.”

    Perhaps this will find its way into the sequel of my novel.

    Perhaps the sequel may never be written.

    Time will tell…since time holds the secrets to many joys that I hope to encounter in life.

    When reading the above snippet, don’t only think of someone else. Consider that this may be how someone sees you, while you’re focused on the heartache and pain from your past.

    And that’s what is important. Sometimes we’re so fixated on the pain, that we don’t realise what beauty it has unearthed within us.

    Until we do, we’ll always honour the pain, and neglect our beauty.

  • My echo chamber

    My echo chamber

    For what feels like an eternity, I’ve been grappling with whether I have anything of substance to share beyond my first novel. Will it be an indulgent rant of self-pity, or will it honour the human struggle? Am I invested in it the way I was with the first novel? Or is the tedious repetition of adult themes in my life that inspires my writing just too much adulting for most who encounter its narrative?

    Such thoughts have plagued me for a long time now. Some inspired by genuine self-doubt, but most spawned by the weight of a colourful life that most could not bear. Thinking aloud reinforces the imposter syndrome, and speaking into a void reminds me that I’m my only echo chamber.

    Being cryptic is a natural disposition. A disposition that I expended every effort in my life to decode so that I could convey a coherent thought to any who would listen. My efforts appear to have resulted in an over achievement. Where once my challenge was in articulating my thoughts, I now stand accused of communicating in ways that are too complex. In my efforts to be as succinct as possible, it seems I’ve grown too dense in a single expression to the point of fatigue for the listener.

    Balance between the two is what I’ve sought through my writing. Being able to read within the perceived mindset of the reader has offered me the opportunity to develop depth to my echo chamber. But, it’s still my echo chamber, manned by me, and occupied by none else. My objectivity is therefore subjective, and my perspective unreliable.

    Therefore, I must dig deep into any snippet of feedback that I receive, trying to understand what is meant in the restrained or lethargic feedback that is spilled, almost hesitantly, as if a burden. Analysing and unpacking, decrypting and translating, finally leaving me with a glimpse of the truth behind the vague words offered as a description of how my writing may have been experienced. But I’m painfully aware that it’s still my echo chamber, manned only by me. Therefore none of its contemplations provide certainty or confidence. It only provides entry to yet another rabbit hole of doubt and over thinking.

    Will I write again? I think I may. Will it be more impactful than the first attempt? I’m not sure. But I’m curious to know. And that curiosity can be satisfied in one way only. I must write, and I must share. My echo chamber is an indulgence of self-pity that holds little value and no promise.

    The uncertainty of life must be celebrated, if not honoured. Without it, we’d be complacent beings disconnected from our souls, and each other. It is our collective fears that create the greatest moments of connectedness when we rise above those uncertainties, rather than surrendering to it.

    The answer, I guess, is clear. I should (must?) not abandon my story now. There is still much to be told, and if I truly believe that it is more important to tell my story than it is for my story to be heard, then it’s clear that the sequel to my novel is not to be doubted. Instead, it must be embraced with more grit and tenacity than the first.

    I may not have a soul to honour in the sequel, but I do have a narrator to respect, if not appreciate. This is more difficult than honouring another. It demands that I find that elusive balance between confidence and conceit, or self-worth and arrogance. In a world that defines the victim as the hero and the critical thinker as the oppressor, finding balance grows ever more elusive.

  • That empty bench…

    That empty bench…

    The saddest scene for me has always been the abandoned park bench.

    It echoes with profound intensity the pervasive isolation that too many experience, but too few reveal.

    There is a shame that is carried upon the broken wings of abandonment that anchors us in that space between wanting to create beauty in this world, while believing that it will always be unreachable for ourselves.

    So we birth the martyr within, presenting it as the selfless lover without.

    Being sure to distract others with affection, so that no one notices how achingly we stare at those empty benches.

    Those benches that once bore the hopes and dreams of togetherness.

    Those benches that once were claimed as sacred spaces.

    Those benches that remain available to the next loving embrace between its arms, knowing that once the lovers move on, it will remain, rooted to that spot, waiting to be embraced and abandoned, again.

    Photo credit : Adobe Stock


  • An Incomplete Love Story – Author’s note

    An Incomplete Love Story – Author’s note

    A note from the author for my novel, An Incomplete Love Story

    This story was inspired by true events.

    Some, my own but many based on incidents that I witnessed in the colourful domains of my life.

    It is a story of an often-overlooked community.

    Caught at the intersection of cultural pride while fighting for relevance in a rapidly evolving world, the South African Muslim Indian community is replete with prejudices from religious, political, and cultural influences.

    Good intentions rarely paved the pathway to heaven. But, understanding those intentions in the face of the carnage that the resulting actions impose on the innocents is what breathes life into a decaying soul.

    It is this that motivated me to write this novel.

    That is, my hope to draw attention towards the contamination of the good by the misguided prejudices of a sincere but deeply flawed community.

    ~ Zaid.