This is the story of a shadow.
Maybe unusual, maybe very familiar.
The time was up. He had to tell about that journey now. He should have told it before it gnawed at him. That time was now:
He seemed to be in the middle of his ground for a while. There was a dystopian life and world on earth. It was as if humanity had been paralyzed and lost its human qualities. He had his share of it too.
That's why I'm a shadow, he said. I have to run. Saying I have no tolerance for this world, he escaped from his channel. Friends know; from the hypocrites that deciphered them; step by step away from their ornate facades, their sibling cries. Noiseless. He drove away without a fuss and without a trace.
He left them all. He left behind the stinking pile of cadavers. Yeah! He always said so in his most angry moments.
He chose to be isolated. It was unpleasant, but necessary. It was also very necessary. He wasn't content with that either: you see, he is out of his mind, from his utopia; He also escaped from his dreams that he said he would die for.
I mean, everything about the human being, he went away as if he wanted to wipe all traces away.
Was it hate? No no. It was just people's murmurings that made him sick to his stomach now. Either he would be like them; or he would have withdrawn from them. Here he chose the second alternative. It was right.
He was obsessive now. With every step he took until his bones, he examined the stops he was going to reach before he arrived. He also studied it thoroughly. It was out of control.
And his pitch-black dystopia was getting smaller and smaller. He was helpless in his stash's inconspicuous, caravan-proof shelter. He was afraid too. A lot.
But to overcome his fears, he had developed new methods; so it wasn't idle. He was adding, multiplying, and subtracting. With patience. Anyway, it's time.
As long as he was silent and not showing up, he wouldn't be involved anyway! However, he found the results strange: he found it surprising.
Thus, he gained new experiences in his narrow stash. Because his head was working. Although he was not understood from the outside, he was talented and creative.
He loved this new occupation over time! Every move, sound, reaction was carefully studied and calculated. I said he was obsessive.
You see, he was acquiring new normal habits with each passing day.
Didn't they escape? Of course there were them, too, and these were the handicaps that he had trouble solving. It was characteristic and abstract factors that influenced his inner world. Because of this, their smiles were completely disoriented. However, how much he loved to laugh.
In the middle of his chest was the unbearable weight of a bottomless scream. The knot was his soul. No matter how loud she screamed, her voice wouldn't come out. That voice could not come out.
I mean, everything had turned its back on him, including time. His hump was rising day by day; It was as heavy as possible and difficult to carry.
But that was the paradoxical thing: He gathered his last strength. He held the cracked mirror to himself inside. There, he looked for the syllables he had accumulated. It was a new and hysterical state; that is beyond the ordinary.
His skin, though torn, and his fingers, though paralyzed, were determined. He would find the syllables he was looking for.
It was like the nakedness of Hiroshima laments and smoke—just like that naked girl on fire, she would emerge from the weeping of darkness. Without giving up, he would find the syllables hidden somewhere inside him.
As a matter of fact, it appeared that they were looking for; One by one, they emerged from the folds of his soul and brain cells. They came out, albeit at a snail's pace...
They held hands. That's what they call a miracle, it had to be. His sentences came to life in that pitch dark. He called to his heart then.
He listened, he listened devotedly to the innocent sound of each syllable. And in them was the voice of his soul. This resurrection was like a crawling baby; sometimes it was rude. It was wild. But he was sure.
This was his last stop.
He was like a frightened cat. Should he believe and get off at that stop?
Finally, he gathered all his courage. He stepped on that station.
He was silent as if he had swallowed his tongue.
The lights of that city seemed dead.
The notebook was hidden in his chest, and he held it tight.
The yellowed leaves of the notebook trembled as if caught in the wind. He was trembling. It was just like the storms inside him.
The more he looked around at that stop, the more confident he became. This was the place he was looking for. That was the last stop.
“Pen-Notebook station,” he said at last. He could.
He loved the timbre of your voice.
He loved what his eyes saw
That indescribable excitement
That moment, the day, and his strength
He loved, and he loved this prayer very much.
Since that day, Pen-Notebook has been a faithful companion to him. He was adept. It was not like the old loves, which he postponed with bitterness and residue in his mind. His love was something else. His arms were resilient and always tense.
