A Poem Rumi Forgot to Complete

  So it's 31st December and a wrap then. I'm glad that I didn't kill myself this year.  There were moments when I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, I wanted everything to end. And no, it was not because of love. Faiz once said "Zamany main or bhi gham hain Mohabbat ke siva" ( There are other sufferings too in this world besides the agony of love) . In my story, this agony is sadness which I got in heretiance. It is my mind and the voices- the voices that will never let me sleep peacefully. The voices that urge me to leave everything behind. The voices that tell me that I belong to nowhere, nobody. The voices that tell me I don't matter. And sometimes, these voices speak the truth, that we all deny deliberately. Some very dear people went against my wishes this year, didn't meet to my expectations and when I confronted them, they blamed me for overreacting, for not taking things lightly. Yes, I'm a narcissist, if I don't control you, I don't...

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...

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...

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...