ZARA M.

It is a bright sunny day today. I usually enjoy it more when there is sunshine outside, but at times, my heart yearns for petrichor, raindrops, and grey clouds above in the sky.  Today, I find myself renewed and restored from all the thoughts that have kept tormenting me enough in the recent past; I feel fresh today. Perhaps I have commenced to accept what destiny holds for me. If I am to be honest, I find calmness in capitulating to the universe while keeping my sanity intact.  With each warm sip and a gentle golden glow, I breathe in fresh air and a promising outlook, having ceased to compel destiny and instead chosen the path of belief and acknowledgment. Take my word for it: when we cease to exert pressure on God and the universe, that is when things begin to set themselves in motion, embarking upon the path where they were always meant to be. Tranquility prevails and distress fades into oblivion.      ~Zara M.

Dear Heart,  It is evening. The raindrops are constantly falling from the sky, as if it is weeping, missing its dearest. The sky is grey. It is August. This is how August evenings are: melancholic and pensive.  The atmosphere inside is as sorrowful as the skies above me. You are dearly remembered every day, but today, the heart feels nostalgic, forlorn, and homesick. It suffers bereftness, it yearns for your softness.   Until the rain carries your name away, Bye.  ~Zara M.

As oceans run dry,  It is a time to try,  As he drifts by, So do I. Things turn to boil; We let them toil. As moments pass by, Our silence replies, And fate denies. ~Zara M.

Dear Heart, Some days I feel like writing an infinite number of words to you, and some days, it is just me staring at a blank page with endless emotions inside me, resisting coming out or struggling to take the shape of words. The topsy-turvy phase I am in at the moment has taken hold of me; some days I am drowning, and the other days, I am floating over the skies, swinging between depression, resistance, and elation.   I am writing to you today with extreme pain inside me, I am not aware of the condition I am going through, all I know is that something is not right in me; perhaps it is my heart.  Not a second passes when memories do not unsettle me; my heart is crushing with unknown sorrow, it may be your departure, words you could not keep or the trust I placed in you.  Tonight, coffee is reminding me more of you.   ~Zara M.

Dear Heart,  Not every day is a Sunday. People do not stay confident every day; misalignment occurs, and doubts dominate. The ultimate choice remains acceptance, and releasing oneself from the identity crisis that follows.  Today, with severe heaviness in my chest and head, I am dropping words onto paper. I messed up brutally at a phase in life. Since then my brain is constantly torturing me, to the point of slaughtering every fragment of peace within me.  I have always believed that perfection is overrated and almost perfect is perfect enough. But today, I bungled where I could not afford to; I am half tormented, half dead, and completely unconscious of myself, to the point of feeling as though I barely exist.  My body has stopped responding to me. I am stunned. Whatever I started my day with has left me in mental and physical torment. My very existence has already suffered several miseries recently, and today's anguish has merely added itself to an already establis...

Tonight, I am not I but you are you Whatever happens, just do not forget my presence. For as your departure unveiled  I quietly remained,  though my heart failed.  ~Zara M.

Something notable my existence has comprehended is not to keep clinging to past and to desires. Things come and go, and when you become habituated to releasing, to letting go, and to making space for the new, that is where you begin to live with freedom.    As Paulo Coelho writes, " When someone leaves, it is because someone else is about to arrive,"  unveiling the complexity of the universe: something when leaves, it makes space for something else to fill the void. That is how the universe works, and this deeply layered toil is tough for our small minds to grasp; we begin to distress over what has left, without understanding that its departure may simply be the universe making room for what is yet to come. ~Zara M.

Dear Heart,  As life passes, one gets to realize that we see things as we are, instead of what they actually are. Time has trained me, modified, and revitalized me. Whenever I sense negativity in something, I start looking inside myself because that is where things are wrong when outside is not right.  I am glad that such a power has taken hold of me where I can sift through what is bleak and damaging, and that is how I gained my power and peace.  Intellectuality aside, I am seeing your reflection in today's rain, and it is as soothing as softened butter melting over a morning croissant.  Until croissant gets passe, Bye.    ~Zara M.

Old books are the ones abandoned and lonely. They are the books that travel miles to reach us, having passed through several hands before finally finding their way to us. These are the ones no one owns anymore, or those deserted once they have been read. They are, in a way, homeless.  If, in life, we can ever do a small favour by giving them a good home where they are valued and cherished, nothing could be more beautiful than that.  New books are liked by all, what about the ones that were once wanted and are now left behind after being read? They are not less worthy of being read, no less admirable.  Last but not the least, a few used volumes contain notes, written for beloveds by the lovers. They provide a certain sense of comfort, a coziness in holding that book, and discovering these traces of someone else's life. Perhaps that is what makes them special: they remind us of how life circles, how things once loved find their way into other hands, and how stories con...