I was asked what I wanted to write about yesterday.
I stared into the clouds before I mumbled, “I want to write defiant novels in colors that don’t exist.”
I want to write words that heal the messy pains of human hearts, the pains that still linger through your system, the pains that have engraved their unspoken tales in the dilated pupils of even the darkest eyes. It is not simple, it not logical even perhaps, but I feel that if I am able to heal even one lost heart through my words, my soul will happily flee this world when death comes to collect what it is owed.
I was only seventeen, when I saw a leather bound book on my bookshelf filled with the poetry of Jalal ad-Din Muhmmad Balkhi — you may know him as Mawlana, or Rumi. I wasn’t even sure where it came from…
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