There weren't many traces of my life, and I had reached the top

Why are pages written?

The world is written because it is painful, and it is written because emotions are overflowing.

It is a very difficult process to get rid of one's own misery.

But once a person gets rid of this misery, then he can take life under his own dominion.

Here is an article written to explain such a sovereignty to one or two more people.

I learned to dominate my world through literature.

I write to come to terms with life and death.

How important is the loss of a nightmare in human life, especially if a person's path crosses with taking his own life.

The last person I tried to reach from the edge of a life where words refusing me, and the ruminant pains in the alphabet of my mind.

Moisture inside.

While I was notorious and walked.

And the call of death that smelled like rotten eggs was such an alluring and steady call.

Snow falling inside me.

The darkness that seeps into my heart is incalculable and the pus leaking from the people around me.

Clinging with a nightmare and my locked heart and body unable to carry this burden, however, beyond being a lightweight mortal, how light as a bird I was before.

A dark whistling and insane island ground from the night breaks up the sky while I live on my fingertips and is the only trace of my life when I was walking and just breathing.

And I was the pioneer of a secret, I was the ward where I was hiding and I was trapped behind iron bars, although it was like heaven in my eyes before.

What was I in someone's eyes?

There is no slide.

The genie of the lamp is missing.

I live with regret.

I was silently banned.

When the light in my face sometimes turns red like a pomegranate and cracks.

And the existence of the pen is just a matter of keeping an account.

A power over me.

Or the fact that the power passed to me, in fact, I passed out, in fact, I lost myself and blew my soul…

A night of jokes.

Huge wind.

Influential people.

The area of ​​my life is limited to an area of ​​only ninety square meters and I am missed with the loneliness and darkness that I am a regular in.

What was I knitting out of my pain?

Kilometers of rugs.

Countless covers.

A shawl.

A blanket and another.

And here is my meeting with the pen.

There weren't many traces of my life, you know, there was no boiling pot in the house, so much that I reached the top in my test with hunger without slowing down.

A discourse that crossed my path:

Never being calm is my destiny, I guess.

My soul and featherweight body, which has been disciplined since my childhood and in harsh conditions.

Heavy exercises.

Long walks.

I gained resistance to hunger.

My sleepless years

Then my lost relatives and my father.

While my only luxury is to dream, I make my dreams come true for better or worse, and then I withdraw from everything and close inside.

My soul and emotions scattered like garbage, moreover, I am inhibited.

It is not accepted that I live without a sound so that the needle of life intersects with silence.

It is the smallest prime number that I have not yet reached the level of nothingness because I have assumed the task of prime number.

My trembling fingers, which I start suddenly and count down, reach minus and deal with minus infinity, and here is my soul that exploded, and it is never possible for me to forget that night for a lifetime, and my shaky fingers make the act of writing real within days.

While you don't know.

I discovered that the only thing I know is that I know nothing:

How strange, how one can have the whole world, let alone discover.

The frequency is cut off.

My circuits threw.

I was unaware that it would take years to return to my factory settings.

Life is not a thing that a person seeks for life, but a phenomenon in which he seeks himself.

The fertility of words.

The alphabet and charm of loneliness.