Doors slammed in my face and the rough wind blows in my soul!
My dreams are not haunted these days.
Just like you emphasized, after all, you were the first to say that you are not alone in dreams.
Did you add the depression of the heart like the nausea hidden in the climate, and should I say the human losses that I could never eliminate from my hands, or should I say shame, that slipped away without my help?
What emotion do I not have that I spur, that boredom that takes me away from me and that does not go away inside me.
The wind is very cautious. I just woke up and opened the balcony door, then the doors slammed in my face and I realized that it was my own face who closed and slammed the doors.
There is no person I find face to face, except you dear, not even my mother, and I especially upset her so much that I was upset. It turned out that when she got sick the other day, it suddenly dawned on me.
I don't have a dream to present, and my dreams are not that dark and humming over me like a nightmare, and the church bells in the opposite garden are ringing nonstop, after all, it's Easter, no matter what time of night it is.
We learned from our deceased neighbors, whom I knew in my childhood and who loved me more than me, and I learned from them that there would be no human discrimination because we had a common language: of course, love and humanity.
There are so many emotions that I get fallow.
Many and many that I have planted in my heart.
The fading sunlight and the fading sun.
What does it mean to see the sun, as long as there is no darkness inside and nature, and I have known such dark people, especially lately: moreover, what I believe we are traveling from heart to heart, whatever happens to me, always comes from my ignorance.
I never accept that people have passwords and I know them as I see them, I insert them into my heart, and then all my heart vessels are blocked: either it must be angio, my feelings or I have to remove those dark human dreams from my life, but it doesn't work: I can't do this and no matter what/who I see, I can actually perceive it as I want to see it. I position it in my heart.
Angels and my inner voice are constantly giving me positions.
Just me; I say "shut up" and I can't make my heart listen, no matter who it is; age or gender or position because I feed on the language of the heart, not the bird language, and a whole world of people who say they will not let go, dear Kafka:
My hands are cracked.
My hands are empty.
In fact, my hands are bloody because I am very good at making myself bleed.
Days ago when I woke up to a loving climate…
While the month of May is smiling, it breaks the clouds...
I hit the road.
Then I was stoned.
Words turned into stones and people turned into stones: God knows everything, seeing everyone as they are, and when I take my heart, the universe warns me, but I'm not even trying, I think I'm wrong...
The lever of the soul.
The hood of words too.
I don't have a beard so they can listen to my words.
Poplar winds blowing on my head too, but as you know, I just either climb the poplar tree or fall from the top of the tree like an apple falling on Newton's head, not the gravity, I just feel the attraction of love and I always love people. Like an orderly, I constantly pour orders to my heart, even to all my organs.
I fell flat on the ground.
Since my neck is debt, to love without hesitation...
Then, as I climbed the hills, of course, I couldn't fit inside of me, and I couldn't help but with the enthusiasm that I couldn't help, I must get the best out of life and the day I didn't like was a day wasted for me, and since I promised, it turned around and came to love; Haven't I experienced what I've been through in the last quarter of my life, where I'm always sure that I am loved as much as I love you?
Disappointment and waste of time.
If there is a door that I bolted or doors that close in my face and the rough wind can't do anything with me...
I would love to make a joke, what you saw in my dream last night is not only about darkness and silence, but I escaped from myself as much as I escaped from the presence of someone following me.
Those long and boring years when I had my words fallow.
How enthusiastically I threw away tens of meters of rugs and blankets that I sat sluggishly at home and stuffed with wool and knitted after I started writing, and Kafka, don't think I'm writing nonstop and with this flood of emotions that accumulated inside of me, who knows how many hundred years I wished to live, hundreds of millions of sentences. and I would write essays and poems if my life was a few centuries old.
While weaving my loneliness couple by verse.
While pouring my majestic love to people like a gutter and dividing my heart.
I am actually a breeze of grace.
A rare also…