I loved everyone around me like an angel without sin

My feelings have no name anymore.

I don't have a name either, only flying adjectives are hidden around me, and even though I'm not in sight, I've always been a target for people.

my silence…

My battle with myself.

That's why I can't take a step beyond my self-respect, and I'm alienated from self-love because I equate love with being loved.

I succeeded in playing games and dreaming, then starting school and learning to read and love books, even the profession, which is not even remotely related to me.

I liked the bank corridors because banking as a profession is my choice even though it is wrong.

I liked everyone around me: from the manager to the tea shop.

To be respected as much as I am respected and to:

Dignity comes first to me because I accepted in advance that I was loved.

Then I transferred to the teaching profession and loved my students like crazy, and thanks to them who understood true love, I had hundreds of children and being so loved in my life was the golden key to heaven for me.

My reproach is not actually my reproach myself.

A cluster of clouds surrounding me.

Diluted time.

My twitching eyes.

Numb ghosts…

Maybe I should have loved the dead the most and know that I already love them, at least they are close to me, at least it is known that I have suffered with them and they never hurt me.

Maybe my father's death brought me closer to me because I was a miserable child who was given orders and questioned constantly, and whose every action was easily judged, but I was given the impression of a happy child with one hand on oil and one hand on honey, and my every wish being fulfilled.

While you can go to the best schools.

On top of that, I took private lessons at home and got acquainted with the piano, and then private teachers would come and go when I was preparing for the exams...

Happiness is hypothetical, dear friends.

Happiness is immeasurable.

People are also relative.

Sadness or joy.

People and love...

Loving loving.

Loved delight.

That I was loved by everyone, even though I had accepted it in advance.

The long corridors hidden in my head and the incessant pacing.

Sometimes, when I can't go a long way in my fight with myself, I desperately reach out to people and want to talk to them incessantly, and even a word that will come to me from them is my treasure, many other sentences that come back to me.

What I heard in my ear.

They hit my face.

Closing doors.

Whereas, the Creator who opens the door and allows me to enter through that door.

And while I am purely asking people's permission to love myself…

Maybe it is the dear writer who is right, who accompanies me and as he emphasizes:

It's too late now. The taste of pain and love. It was the most beautiful. Always wanting to die and keeping myself afloat. That's just what love is.

So why am I writing?

And here is the dear author with whom I met on a common ground:

I write to come to terms with life and death.

While wandering around the slope of the uncertainty to which I was assigned, the roads I had to traverse and so many mountain peaks and here is my capital that offers me to me and to the whole universe, which matches my pen-popping temperament, which I escaped as a pen from the cocoon of nothingness where the wind attacked me.