Miracles feel simple to a hopeful heart – Jay Shetty

To hope is to silently remember there are sunrises.

We’re so accustomed to miracles that it’s hard for us to recognize them when they appear. But just because you don’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

Love is happening even when you can’t see it. The world is spinning on its axis even when you can’t see it. You’re growing even when you can’t see it, when you assume you’re going nowhere.

The same is true for miracles. And when you realize there’s so much unseen good in the world, your ability to hope expands infinitely. Suddenly, the notion that good things will come to you becomes a very likely and reasonable possibility.

Hope is a miracle in and of itself, and its purpose is to carry you. To carry you when you feel heavy, when your life is too dark for you to see clearly, when you’re tired and lost and don’t know where to go.

Allow yourself to explore the depths of your hope– and feel the gratitude

that always accompanies this sacred clarity.

How could she help me? How can one drowning rat save another?

I dug my hands in my pockets and kept my head low. I pounded the streets, walking fast, going nowhere.

In my mind I kept going back over our relationship, scene by scene, remembering it, examining it, turning it over, looking for clues.

I remembered unresolved fights, unexplained absences, and frequent lateness.

But I also remembered small acts of kindness-affectionate notes she’d leave for me in unexpected places, moments of sweetness and apparently genuine love.

How was this possible? Had she been acting the whole time? Had she ever loved me?

I had to go. I couldn’t breathe in there. I needed some peace. I needed to breathe.

UnLoved – Poem #01 (2021)

From where the love’d to come
Love for your UnLoved?
Will you not miss ’em?
Missin’ ’em not, stoppin’ y’self to,
Is that the way to UnLove ’em?
From forgiveness to Forgotten?

You think you’re not a monster,
You must not care what they think.
If you care what they think,
How will you not hate ’em, well!
You became monster for ’em, well!
Kind of monster known’s [beloved- UnLoved]

They’ gone and they came not
They are free of you na’
As, They free’d you, You free’d ’em, well!
They’re as sunlight t’thou but isn’t it tru’
Dark night had to come.
Final shade had to go!

(All rights reserved © Shuhab Abro)

I was an open book but still you couldn’t read!

Nothing terrifies me more than being so close to someone and then watching them become a stranger again.

You couldn’t read my words, you couldn’t really understand my sentences, you couldn’t understand why I paused after a certain sentence or why I ended a sentence with an exclamation mark rather than a full stop. You could read my headlines, but you didn’t even care what I’m trying to say, you didn’t know if it’s a misleading headline or a headline that has nothing to do with what I’m truly trying to say. In other words you couldn’t sum me up actually.

When I used to write about loving you, you knew that I can’t sleep at night while thinking about you. I wrote about feelings and those moments of my life when life was wondrous and I was mesmerized. A feeling that struck me once that I can’t forget.

I used to write about how you made me feel because I loved that feeling — not you.

When I write about missing you, I write about the person you used to be, the person you pretended you were or the person I thought you were. I write about who I thought you were and the things you made me believe in. I miss the rush of emotions, the whopping smile on my face when I saw your name on my phone, the bright future that I painted in all my favorite colors and I miss that moment I realized that I’m capable of loving you unconditionally.

I write about missing you and everything relating to you, but that doesn’t mean I want to call you, text you or I want you back. I will miss you as an inspiration always.

My words are a reflection of me; they can be controverted, they can be wise, they can be silly, they can be insane, they can be idealistic, they can be flawed, they can be harsh and they can be fragile. My words can be a lot of things, but they will always be real.

I’m an open book and I write about the fine details, but you were never a detail-oriented person so you will never understand the depth of my words.

I was an open book in front of you, you could flip through my pages, you won’t be able to pin me down again, it takes more than reading from a distance to know me, it takes more than words to figure me out and it takes a lot more than reading to know my story but you never had the courage to finish the story till the end.