Oh, Bushra. You are so deeply sensitive.

Are all hearts alike, merely molded from clay? I observe, I analyze, yet all I witness are the same emotions haunting people like notorious spectors.

Everywhere people close the shutters of their hearts, hoping these cunning ghosts won’t infiltrate and claim their wounded hearts as their own sanctuary. Are my ghosts more merciless or do all hearts suffer from feeling overcrowded, vast yet constricted?

I envision my heart expanding as it grows more receptive.

Gone are the days when I scorned those unfortunate souls who wept at the sight of sorrow. I know not when I...