I was in the season of love again. I opened my wings to all people who carry love and happiness in their hearts.
I flew like a seagull bird in the sky.
And I floated among the white clouds like in a magical dream.
I was not afraid, I trusted everyone.
I didn't believe they would stab me in the back and hurt me.
I loved living with all people in a loving and good spirit.
I did not feel fear and insecurity
But bad days bad people broke my wings.
Now I will live without wings,
I stopped believing in people's loyalty.
My wings will grow but my trust in people won't come back
He will still walk upright.
It was the brazen chains of the past that rotted my soul. It is as if it were hidden in a pitch-black body that does not fade, does not age, and does not settle. He was following me every step of the way, to cut my breath.
Then the blue of the pen was injected deep into the paper with the calm flow of tears. Again one day, as he was running away from people, his body remembered the smelly people entwined in the bushes. He wished that he would not approach his carefully chosen sentences, the sound of breaths that interfere with his life. The inevitable end of escape; The staggering effect of that self-bashing had seized him, too. At every corner of every street he steps on. Timeless, reasonless and silent.
Writing was perhaps his best conversation with himself. He didn't want to write either for the future or for those days that were the prisoner of the past. He just had to write on the tears rolling every time he looked in the mirror. He closed his notebook gently. The language of the notebook was locked in the rain-like sound of tears. His hands reached for the box he always entrusted, and as he left the gray key, he said, "I know that my memories, which are getting heavier as they accumulate in the captive ports, will surely bring me to you, wait for me." One evening, the key's custodian, the wooden box, was hidden on the bottom shelf of the blue cabinet, unbeknownst to everyone.
It was a street walk, the best therapy for yourself. He was talking to the silence of the sidewalks as he walked. Especially if it was covered with the night veil, the streets belonged to him completely. The silence of those downstairs gave him a moment of courage, and one by one he descended the wooden stairs. As if they had a pre-signed agreement with the key of the door; Although he could not see his way through the forelock of darkness, the key taken from the blue porcelain box was turned in a snap with a click in the slot of the door. And it was before the cold wind, like a sharp line.
The perfect breath of the wind swayed like a drawbridge between fear and hope. Was the fresh fountain of hope behind the wooden stairs, or was it fear, this wind sworn to raise your soul before it?
He decided to dry his cheeks, which were wet with tears every time his pen and paper met.
Her hair, which had been scattered every time her breath mingled with the scent of white paper, now dispersed again in the rebellious wind.
His hair, which he did not even like the hairpins, was always fond of his freedom.
He did not interfere, he wanted them to disperse.
He was in front of the door, he looked at them and his eyes were full of tears, then he lived those moments again.
He remembered his position with the harsh slap of the wind that attacked in an instant.
While leaving the house with his overcoat on, without exposing himself to the cold; He released his soul to be distilled into the vast waters of the wind.
He was walking…
Layers of sadness accumulated in his soul, the silence of loneliness in his voice, and the sadness as he walked, left a trace in the snow. The mourning of the night dragged on him and what he had memorized during the day. He was looking for a spark in the shadow of the street lamp on every corner. If he found a pinch of spark; he would burn all the heavy issues that he could not own .
If he had come, the happiness accumulated in the chests, the smile left at the end and the peace that appeared untimely would have been his.
Maybe it was a belief, maybe a half-left.
He had no name, just like the names he couldn't find on the pages he wrote.
He suddenly gave up not talking, but this time listening to memories.
The night is cold, the streets surrender to a long silence.
And in the captivity of those heavy thoughts, one step closer to loneliness...
