A Poem Rumi Forgot to Complete

They ask me who am I. Should this question be asked? Of course not. Sadly, I have no name, it ruins the beauty of mystery. The name does not matter, does it? Many people died without anyone remembering their names. They were incomplete stories, unwritten words, and undiscovered thoughts. I want to remain like that too  because I am a poem Rumi forgot to complete. Today, I choose to write about that incomplete poem. But why I am the poem of Rumi? And not of Shakespeare,  Shah Latif, or Bullhe Shah?  Because Rumi had Shams.  Shams acted as a muse for Rumi. When he started that poem, he lost his muse; thus an incomplete poem was born. An incomplete chaos, an unsolved puzzle, and everything that is lost on the way. We all are someone's Rumi and someone's Shams - doesn't it sound amazing? But in reality, neither you are a Shams nor I am a Rumi. We are those words that were never said loudly. Words that were only thought.  So, starting from this, I finally tried to wr...

I was tired. I was tired of everything. I was tired of telling them how to treat me. I was tired of begging for love. I was tired but no one could see. No one could understand. None could make me happy. I was destroying myself. I no longer wanted to remain in love, or this world or even in my home. I had lost it all but still, I kept on going, hoping that one day, it would be better. One day someone would walk into my life, hold my hands and understand me.... I hoped... But hope is a dangerous thing, it can completely ruin us. Hope is a slow poison and I was no longer interested in poisoning my mind and heart. So I left it behind. After losing it, suddenly all I had was darkness. The world seemed a distant place - a place where I could never be happy. A strange place where I could die in peace but I couldn't live... There was no point in living - with everything happening around the world, my mind was more messy. I could finally understand how the famous artists lose themselves wit...

  We all have a dark side.  Whether we acknowledge it or not, doesn't matter. Since the creation of this world, two forces have dominated the world — the good and the bad. From animals to humans, each one of us has some bad and good qualities. In the end, the dominant side wins. But it's not true.  We are continuously entangled in this war of right and wrong. We take one decision that is against something. No matter if it is a bad or good one. We have this story of Abel and Cain . Then we have this saying of " All is fair in love and war ". So, how does it make Cain a bad person? I leave this question to you.  Life as we know it is not simple. It's not complex either. We make it complicated.  Our brain works in such a way that weighs all the pros and cons of a decision. Every decision is a decision against something, as they say in the German series - Dark, we just go with a lesser wrong decision or at least we pretend that we made a good choice.  The...

No, I am not writing any philosophy here. But, you all have thought of a dream life where no pain exists. No heartbreaks, no fake friends only happiness. It would be wrong to say that I have not thought about it. But my idealism  differs from yours. I have always dreamt of a peaceful mind - a mind which does not think about reality. It also avoids ideas.  Let me simplify this for you. We think that people understand us but in reality, it is exactly the opposite. Here too, the realism  is again contradictory to itself. We communicate our feelings very clearly but still, our emotions are left unheard. This whole idea of our existence is an illusion.  What if I tell you that reality exists in your mind, you see the colours of the world do not exist in reality. It is our mind that makes us see those colours. I perceive the colour of the leaves of a tree as green, but for another person, it is yellow or blue or anything.  "I think therefore I am", Descartes  sa...

How do you want to be captured?" you ask.  Don't you know how to capture me? Don't you know the art of being immortalized in words? Haven't you made me a prisoner of your love?  I want to lie on the pages of your diary where you'd put dry flowers. I want to bleed into your ink. I want to be a permanent part of your daily blogs. I want to smell like your hands that leave their scent when you touch my soul.  Baby, imprison me in your thoughts. Cage my whole life in your eyes. Bury me in your heart. Wear me in your skin.  Don't you know I want to be captured by you? And only you.

There is so much to say that my words have gone silent. I cannot express it. I cannot feel it. I cannot make you understand. I cannot. I just can't.  But, my love!  You can hear my silence, can't you? You say you know me. You say you are aware of all the things I have been through. You say it. You say all those sweet words. But my dear, when I dive deep into the darkness, I don't find you there. When I am at my lowest, why I don't find you there?  Why there are only words and no actions? Why do I have to shed my tears alone? Why I don't find you beside me? Why your love is void of emotions? Why can't you feel me?  This contrast in your words and actions makes me realize that I'm hard to love. Hard to assemble. Hard to teach. Hard to comfort. Light can't love darkness. Sadness can't be a friend of happiness. Like that, you can't be me.   My love, I can't make you understand why I love Kafka. Why do I listen to music that rips my heart? Why did...

We both knew this poem would not be finished. It would always remain a piece of incomplete work. But, still we chose to write the first word - love - for the poem of our lives. The first word that would change our lives forever. The first word that would mean more than the last. The first word that we wrote with our souls. The first word that we would always remember. But we never thought about finishing that poem because the endings were not always beautiful. We were afraid that completing this poem would ruin its beauty, weren't we? It was never meant to be a complete piece of art. It was broken, incomprehensible, unfinished, and a little ruthless like our love. It was like a wanderer in the forest. It resembled the journey of gipsies. It was a pearl, lost in the mighty ocean, waiting for its turn to be found. But that unfinished poem carried our memories. The moments that we shared, the days that were spent in search of a perfect ending, the nights that we almost found a finishi...