How it Feels to Be Loved

We have always asked those we meet about how they feel towards others, at least once. “Is there anyone out there you love?” is usually the first question that comes to us when we meet people, or when we are interested to know about others. The first question we ask a child, “Who do you love more your dad or mom? Your brother or sister? Ms. Sarah or Ms. God-knows-who?”

We never, though, ask people who loves them most.

We know how it feels to love. But how does it feel when you are loved? How does it feel when someone out there is actually interested in your well-being? How does it feel to know, for sure, that if one day you don’t wake up, someone will feel about you as Wordsworth, an 18th century poet, felt about Lucy when she died,


She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!”
Yes, Lucy is dead. However, we are not. Being loved is as priceless as the emotion of loving. One is ought to remember that. Our paths cross with so many people who love us and care about us, but we look the other way in search for those we love. We forget to feel ‘loved’, we forget to enjoy the feeling of ‘being loved’. We are too busy trying to feel ‘love’ for others that we forget to touch the feelings other hearts spring in ours.
Love is not just a two-way emotion. They are two distinct feelings. We often forget such fact.

In the Shape of Tears

Sometimes we shed tears because words fail us – and people too. Because we fail ourselves. Because we are too much inside that our inside explodes – in the shape of tears. We go through multiple stages. The second we feel the emotion getting way inside us; then how it starts growing bigger and bigger; then something happens, in the form of a sharp pin, that pricks it. And boom. The balloon, our hearts, explodes.

In the shape of tears.

The waves of rough days cover our bodies and souls, and drag us to a place unknown, a place where things are foggy and the vision is unclear. Our eyes are wide open that dust starts hurting our pupils. We try to seal our eyelids. We close them, because they were too open. Too much got inside, like our hearts. Being able to identify the objects is a blessing not a lot of people have. Being able to decide what your heart accepts and what it should refuse is a blessing very few people have. Some say it is a skill, or the result of too much pain. Some people are just unlucky. Everything goes inside their eyes – and hearts.

So in the shape of tears, such hearts explode.

Most of the time, there is no one to blame, not even the genes. It just happens. Sometimes, life just happens. There are days when life seems tough, but it is not tough. It just seems tough. Sometimes, it is tough. Today, it is not tough; but we hope if our hearts were so. If they were tough. Not so fragile and weak (or is it week? I always miss this word. I’ll go for weak, as my heart feels it shows weakness).

In the shape of tears, we break apart.

Crying is a sign of strength. The bigger the explosion, the deeper and louder the cries are, which clearly indicates how much inside was buried. Crying is a sign of strength because it tells so much about that person. It tells how hard they try. It is alright that they fail. They tried. It shows how deep they get to things. How blended they are. How involved.

People usually cry over gone things, or things they know for sure will go. People cry because they are helpless. Because they are incapable of holding on to what their internal wants. They cry because they are lost or because they lost something. They cry because their emotions were set on – and that, alone, shows greatness: they felt (a luxury not a lot have).

We explode in the shape of tears, because water is weak. And water is fragile. And water is transparent. But water can hold ships made of steel.

We explode in the shape of tears because, like water, we keep going despite the great depth of the hurt within, and despite the darkness inside.

Betwix Darkight

The First raindrop is always the hardest – the happiest
She falls to the ground of desperate souls
And lights their fire.

The First sun-ray is always the warmest
Embraces the thoughts of hollow men
Brings them to peace and laughter:
The sun is finally here.

The first child is always the loudest,
For before them was silence
And without them silence remains.

Force your breath inside for when
Life takes over
You shall have nothing but a whisper –
So dim like the sound of a distant trumpet.
Firsts will always be the bestest –
No matter how many laters
Are built with heartjoys and heartbreaks.
Heartaches: they create darkness
That overtakes the wrinkles
Of too much smiling
And too deep laughter.

Eyes folded and breaths stolen:
Open your eyes and feel the gloom
Spreading in your lungs

For they have caused you so much pain.
Feel the rage and plan your revenge
For it has come:
Your age of victor.

Bring your sword of memories
And dive it deep in your wounds
So the past is never forgotten
And the future is never hoped for.

Weep. Weep and let your heartache echo
In the lands of lost souls –
For it has come
Your age of victor.

Tear the walls of ease and never go to peace
For your pieced heart shall never be pierced
With words of comfort.

Shake. Shiver. But never listen.
Heat your fires and cool your aspires
And run: run. Here is never a home for people like us

Aye, It has come
Your age of victor.

Alas, a serpant has infected your soul
And pain has made you heartless
But I can hear a dim beat – not so distant.

Frosty emotions with care grow back
Better than earlier
– earlier than a morning sunrise.

Cliches like ‘dawns follow darkest hours’
Are not so when downs are our constant companions:
It has come
Your age of spring and comfort.

Harshness may cover your heart

But beneath the pain and hurt

There lies what not a lot have:


Let the ice melt, and the ache

Fade, for when it is set:

Life will give you a save,

One more breath for an ever-after

Of sweet memories,

Of heated emotions,

Of a story:

Love will grow, in your heart, eventually.

Light that candle and whisper to your thoughts:

I am here and so is hope.

I shall not let the wounds of what was once

Break me to pieces for long.

I break free from darkness,

I embrace the light;

Fires inside us will sometimes spread

Brining our souls to the end

But with the help of brightness

We amend

The breaks and burns of our inside.

Tempting gloom can erase our flare

But hear me out, one more thing:

Life is hard and so are people,

This ride will never be joyful

But with passion and dedication

Nothing can really hurt you.

Hold on hard,

Hold on to yourself:

This is not the actual end

But your beginning

Of age of comfort and your spring.

To You

Sometimes in the journey of searching for ourselves, we get lost – even more. Emotions are a very hard-to-understand and hard-to-explain state of heart and mind. We go around remembering the past and how everything used to be like, and seeking a future we have no idea how it will be. Sometimes we just want to sit back and forget that time moves and forget that time is getting somewhere, forget that we are moving forward. Those memories that keep us imprisoned in what was once and keep us on the verge of never embracing our new selves. We see those we once had as friends and we see how life drags them away and we are always – always left behind alone. And we meet new people and we make new relations. And again, time; they move along – always left behind alone.

On the ride of self-discovery we meet certain people who make it feel like our last left-behind was our real last. We touch something in the air that makes us feel like we belong, like life has a meaning. Have you ever been to the sea? Of course you have. Have you ever listened to people’s whispers and stories that are passed from a wave to another. The secrets! The breaths and the wounds. The sea is not just a big pond of water; it represents stories and poems that will never be forgotten to the sand, nor to the waves.

I am not a sea; I am not a breeze; I am not a wave. I may be a secret, a breath, a whisper. I leave thinking that I will not be remembered. That I will not be worthy of the talk of the waves. However, as we look for ourselves, we find others. Others who have been to the sea and have been a secret, a breath, a whisper. The stars at night share our stories, narrate what they see to each other. They try to live on the hope of those stories realizing how significant they are. And they sleep in the morning – the stars sleep in the morning – and so do the stories.

Finding a soul that hovers within the boundaries of a body freely and warmly is a rare thing. Keeping that soul is a rarer thing. And on the ride of self-discovery, we find the one soul that could keep us in place – and we find ourselves left behind (not alone) – with memories. Sweet memories that are screaming for a replay. A reunion. 

A soul and another hovering within the boundaries of two bodies freely and warmly sharing lonesome – and Love. 

مسافة نفسٍ

البعد شر البعد بعد الحياة عن الموت

بيني وبينك شعرة وحجاب أشد

ظننت أنّ قصر الحياة سيغنيني عن اللقيا

.حتى وجدت الحياة قد طالت وطال بها الشوق

ما بال النفس يفصل بيننا؟

.والنفس قصير وطوله طال الزمان موعدا

هذه جنة بيني وبينها مسيرة

وهذه نار أخاف لو مسني ريحها

وأجلس في زاوية الشوق

 أنادي: يا ربّ، يا ربّ القلب قد حنا

.وليس باليد ما يشغلها

شوقٌ كالشوكِ بل أشد وطأة

وروحٌ يتذبذب بها السعي

تارة تسير سير الغزاة  يومَ ميسرة

ِوتارة تهرب في جزعٍ من المسير

وأنا أسيرُ هذا الزمانِ وهذا المكان واللقيا

وقلبي تخسفُ الأرض به والسما

وأقع على أرضٍ تُنادي: يا ربّ

لي ثمرةٌ قتلتها الريحُ

أفلا عجّلت اللقاء بيننا

،فتكون بين ثنايي وفي أحضاني ها هنا

فأردد قولها في نفسي خائفة: يا ربّ

 لي روحٌ كنت قد قبضتها

أفلا عجّلت بيننا اللقيا

فأكون بين ذراعيه أبدا

.ويحتويني في جوفه والفؤاد سرمدا