Fabeha Ali

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,

There is a field, I'll meet you there.

Rumi

The world is obsessed with the surfaces with the milestones reached, the work accomplished, the steady, unblinking strength that keeps the wheels turning. But surfaces have never been enough to sustain a life for me atleast. Real truth, i believe, lives in the depths, the heavy unspoken spaces where care actually resides, and where the things that supposedly "don't matter" actually cut the hardest and they "do matter"

Our most of lives gets poured into chasing the horizon, dreams, goals, the endless pursuit of the next big thing. But beneath that continuing forward momentum, there is a soul that is simply tired. A soul that grows terrified of its own exhaustion because It learns to wear a mask of resilience, hiding the fact that it isn't nearly as strong as it tries to appear.

Everyone can see what is physical and apparent. They see the builder, the achiever, the one who handles it all. But what they don’t see is the scarred, quiet corners of a soul inside that is weary from carrying its own weight in secret. At some point, the applause for being strong stops being enough. The human ache isn't to be admired for the fortress built on the outside but genuinely to be known, met, and held in the fragile, tired spaces within us.

I have found both freedom and safety in my madness;

the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love.

That, my dear, is love.

People empty me. I have to get away to refill.

It suddenly seemed to me that I was lonely, that everyone was forsaking me and going away from me.

In the end, we'll all become stories.

The desire to be loved is the last illusion

Give it up and you will be free.

I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.

You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid.

I am a stranger in this world, and there is a severe solitude and painful lonesomeness in my exile.

How beautiful to find a heart that loves you, without asking you for anything but to be okay.

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls. The most massive characters are seared with scars.

What happens when people open their hearts?

“They get better”

People leave traces of themselves where they feel most comfortable, most worthwhile.

But how can you love a person who is not whole?

Because you, like the moon, are not only beautiful when full. In all of your phases and fractions and ivory-white pieces, I love you.