I don't lean towards tomorrows anymore and I just live in the moment

I'm calling from the edge of loneliness, but I don't know to whom this cry reaches.

Who is there that I can talk to?

I am like a flower blooming in the springs of my mind, and every time I fade, I am aware that the air I breathe will not be enough.

If I have to present a theory, I also know that I have to dig in my lower memory, after all, my life consists of teachings and advice.

I've been betraying my imagination lately and I have nothing to dream of, after all, even the people in my dreams left without looking back and I'm afraid now, come to love loudly and see that; The meter inside me is constantly working, and the inscriptions I find in the ruins of my mind are the last remnants of the wheels and ground mills by which I was grinded.

It's a great past that I have to destroy.

And my presence in the moment.

I don't lean towards tomorrow anymore and I'm just trying to live in the moment.

The only thing I deal with is you and I am the last leaf left from the climate where I was hurt:

While it is the last leaf of my mind and wisdom notebook.

Not what I remember, but what I only know now.

Whatever I keep hidden in a locked drawer.

Is it warming me up in the boiling cauldron or am I still trapped in an iceberg?

My words are the echo of my soul.

I imitate not even red-purple women, because I have always chosen to be white and plain, so I only imitate my happiness in my yesterday and I think; I suspect that every time I take the pen, I will put an end to this trend and teleport to the past.

The flag of mourning.

Universe call.

My words in which loneliness burns.

I'm never slimy, but with my shy temperament, I can't stay together with people, most of all, I couldn't make the grumpy child in me come of age.

My reactions are related to silence.

Even silence is a reaction, and I'm brainstorming nonstop, and I grab onto the pen as soon as it takes flight.

It's too late now at this time.

This is the taste of pain and love.

My regular, empty, crazy, youthful life also has its justification. Rather than stare into the still emptiness around me, I can carry on with the double-talk within myself. But that's the way to be good for me.

Whatever the nature of life.

While the cost is unaffordable.

Is it too wise to share how many points a book shares a loneliness?

At least I'm shouting in capital letters and while my passion is Literature, many graves emerge from under every emotion I shovel and mix, each of which corresponds to a poem or a story, in fact, I am ahead in the lane of words, of course, I am a pioneer, while I fill your emotions with a dogmatic breeze because sometimes I pay the price and sometimes I have no enforcement power. gap.

I never go into details, but I built my life on details, at least because I despised the life that was given to me, now I feel better in the mobilization of my emotions, at least while I was writing and all the writings I wrote, moreover, most of them are aside and have not come to light. Let's see if my life will be enough to write thousands of more articles or if my sleep will always escape, when I don't shed my heart's blood, I can never sleep comfortably on a blank page and I can't live.

Kafka is one of the few writers I imitate, and as the author emphasizes:

Living with him is the greatest hope of our pitiful actuality.