Locked Heart

What is this place? Why is it shrouded in darkness? There's no entrance, no way in, yet a flicker of light pierces the gloom of this small, cubical room. It's not big enough for anyone else, just me. But I'm comfortable here. I have no desire to leave, yet the door exists—I can feel it, though I can't see it. I have the key, a golden key adorned with shapes and cryptic symbols. I've spent an eternity trying to solve them, and now I'm certain of their impossibility. What's the use of a key without a door? And this door, a creation of my own imagination, has no proof of existence except this feeling. This feeling deceives me, distancing it when I approach and bringing it near when I retreat. It's an empty loop, suggesting the futility of escape. Is it worth all this effort? Or is it just another illusion? But the real question remains: Is escape even possible?

Though I possess the key, I cannot use it. It's as if destiny mocks me, and with time, I've become a prisoner of this room. I've grown accustomed to it, and it has transformed into my sanctuary, my refuge. Nothing can reach me here. It's my only private space, my sole possession.

And then, I lost the key.

Is this an escape? No, no, it's not in my nature to flee. I remain at ease here. Solitude doesn't trouble me in the least. My imagination is my companion—perhaps an illusion, maybe just curiosity. Does everyone have a room like mine? I genuinely don't know, and if I'm the only one, does that make me strange? I prefer to remain regardless.

My confidant, have you any news? You're usually chatty, speaking of what was and what should be, ethics à la Kant, Ibn Khaldun's introduction, poetry and prose, knowledge and madness, eloquence and balanced speech. Your silence baffles me. Do all people have rooms like mine? I really don't know, and if I'm the only one, does that make me peculiar? I'd rather stay, regardless.

Oh, my confidant, what's this new topic I've stumbled upon? How could I feel sorrow again when I've never known it or experienced it before? Is there a way to understand sadness except by feeling it? And how can a person appreciate joy and delight without knowing sorrow and grief? It's as if I'm not human, devoid of emotions and sensations.

Like an empty vessel in the morning, each meeting fills me with something, sometimes a single drop, other times coffee, tea, juice, and occasionally some alcohol. By day's end, when alone, I pour everything out to return to my true state—empty. The cycle begins anew each day, as if feelings are nothing more than mimicry of those I encounter, unintentionally learning from them. This makes me akin to a sponge in the oceans, compelled to soak up saltwater, hoping one day to find itself in human hands, squeezing out sweet water.

Why these dark thoughts? Why all these questions and riddles as I venture into my daily life? There are no sufficient answers to satisfy my curiosity. I am but a human with a vast imagination and a substitute for a sense of values—values that serve as my lifeline...

I have written this originally in Arabic in September last year as I was sitting alone and thinking about how I can't relate to others no matter what I try

Contact me if you want the original article honestly it's not easy to imitate my level in that language