I was a dream traveler. The reality of loving and fond of my dreams before. Falling words, a huge patch hidden in my sewn wound, chameleon joys inside me.
The day I fell.
I'm running for myself.
The rotten breath of the demon whose evil I cursed.
I was a prisoner of dreams and fond of people but loved from afar, and sometimes I ran and jumped into their laps...
Most of it was hidden before me.
Less after that.
What a kind supplication that I keep hidden in my presence in the moment.
The spectator of my mourning is the dome of the sky.
Every syllable hidden in every face loaded with hostile trope to my intimate.
His life as I spelled it out, and the fable as it began, and that I unknowingly escaped from one tale to another.
Mine is an elegant pronunciation.
It is supplyable, but manifested in the demand-supply imbalance.
And I started counting from left to right in the first hours of September.
Since I said goodbye to summer, but my fate and mourning that I couldn't say goodbye to, I tied every word I threw into that well with a wish to the wish tree, whereas my Lord presented so many people I loved without ever seeing or knowing, it's more than I can see with the world's eyes, and here my best man was pulling my pen from my collar and I set my soul free. only the black box in my heart will of course understand after I'm gone why I'm speechless.
I will write as long as I live.
I will live as long as I write.
I will delay my farewell as much as I love, and when the time comes, I will pass away from this world at the speed of light.
Are the vine leaves on the mezzanine of my heart too early or the trees are shedding leaves?
What I postponed, while the deferred happiness is billed to me, of course, I am content with my destiny, my conscience and my connection and my memory and my cure...
I can't say how much I didn't tell what is unknown, and here is my cell that I paced and my dead cells and also my inactive cells, so I pressurize my mind so that it can be perceived and resolved more quickly, but it does not dissolve, my words come out on the eve of my inner blindness and suffocation.
The radar of the heart is always in favor of beauty.
Seeing as beautiful as I look beautiful is also the blind spot of my life when I am love-blind and love-blind people.
What is clear is to live.
When you're nervous.
Relapse of anxiety and carrying awareness.
Some people come and go while they are constantly lying in front of my eyes and spewing anger while I believe and love each of you wholeheartedly.
Those who dare.
Whatever I don't deserve.
The colors are mottled.
It's a relative axis and whoever is its satellite now, so I'm wasting the given breath and just when I'm about to touch myself...
I thought it had immunity, but love.
Those who crush love or rate it with materiality.
I am making notes, item by item, about the passing day and with the brightness and sensitivity of being a light stuck in the night when the sun will see the light, I lie in the texture of the night, I just lie in the void and I can't understand why they destroyed the world inside me.
The culprit is, as I always have been.
It's a genetic acceptance, I think I'm attracted to my mother.
He also took a lot, and on time.
My mother's fate or grief, but she is the only one that I know but is considered happiness and praised in any case and that I am thankful for and she is the only one who knows me and protects me, not just me, and three points.
I tripled.
I was drunk.
I included it.
It doesn't matter who you are, has the wreckage inside of me been kicked again?
The worst thing is, has it always fallen to me to rise from my ashes...
Here's another day fell out of my eyes and a tear and law and law to accept that I know.
There is no one who does not fall into line or whom I am deemed incompatible because there is no servant of Allah that I am grateful to in the universe, and my existence, which was rejected while I have adopted the motto of living for the sake of Allah, is perhaps a very innocent word or sentence that comes out of my mouth.
Good luck with the sentence…
I don't want to say it, but I have to go.
I can't go because my ticket hasn't been issued yet.
To go by myself.
Being reborn and taking on a new identity is all over again.
By the time I deleted it, my favorites are already me.
Love does not give birth to love; Why do people find it offensive that I love myself when love hurts and I have long passed the desire to be loved? Or vice versa:
Why do they worry about the love that overflows me when they are not worried about the love I give them?
My heart is not satisfied, but you have to.
The whole life that I became integrated with my faith, moreover, that comes from my heart.
Print outside.
The dominant character of the external voice.
However, if we do not count the passbooks, how many people do not have identity cards.
If I go today, I can't even get a loan, it means that since I have no financial sanctions from the eyes of the world, the only thing I benefit from is faith and love, and some can show a guarantor at a bank branch.
While the unidentified ones live and are kept alive in their extracts.
While only God knows what identity corresponds to.
Of course, he is the only guarantor for me, close to my jugular vein and to whom I surrender.
The rest is story.
Maybe it's not that I'm going to be the hero of another story and I can't escape from my own story, of course it's a lie.
Nice article. Keep it up