Looking for happiness where it shall be found
It's 3:20 a.m. and I'm thinking about the souls up at this hour. The happy ones, the broken ones and the strange ones.
The happy ones, talking to their loves, not worried what tomorrow brings. Talking about tomorrow like it's guaranteed.
And then there's the other kind. At the other end of the spectrum of love, the ones destroyed by it. The broken ones. Thinking about a lost love and how their voice would make the night a little less dreadful. Plugging in their ear phones and trying to sleep to the lullaby of the memories those songs awaken. Stuffing their heart with more pain. Drowning in tears with a heart so heavy, like it carries the pain of the mother who lost her child in the war. Their screams sound like the cry of the kid who has no family. Sorrows less than the war, but the war in their head says otherwise. War that started in the name of love. The wrong kind of love.
And then, there are the strange ones. Perhaps a combination of the above. The once happy. The once broken. The once lost. The now found. On their prayer mats, crying, asking for help. And in the end, these are the successful ones. So I get up and make wudhu and look for happiness where it shall be found.
“Islam began as a something strange and it will return to being something strange, so give glad tiding to the strangers.”
-Source: Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim #145
The happy ones, talking to their loves, not worried what tomorrow brings. Talking about tomorrow like it's guaranteed.
And then there's the other kind. At the other end of the spectrum of love, the ones destroyed by it. The broken ones. Thinking about a lost love and how their voice would make the night a little less dreadful. Plugging in their ear phones and trying to sleep to the lullaby of the memories those songs awaken. Stuffing their heart with more pain. Drowning in tears with a heart so heavy, like it carries the pain of the mother who lost her child in the war. Their screams sound like the cry of the kid who has no family. Sorrows less than the war, but the war in their head says otherwise. War that started in the name of love. The wrong kind of love.
And then, there are the strange ones. Perhaps a combination of the above. The once happy. The once broken. The once lost. The now found. On their prayer mats, crying, asking for help. And in the end, these are the successful ones. So I get up and make wudhu and look for happiness where it shall be found.
“Islam began as a something strange and it will return to being something strange, so give glad tiding to the strangers.”
-Source: Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim #145
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