Was it a dream that I passed away? As for life, or where I take my revenge on myself and smell my soul with the feeling of migration! Even though I had developed a belief that I was actually immune to the pen's relative impulses, I still couldn't adjust it. here are the ones that made me feel like a couch grass like living and dying and not being able to discern, whereas life was not going well because of people who are the rasp of life.
I am always on the road.
My joy and exuberance that die inside of me when I decide to stray from time to time.
The world I've taken off my skirt and the emotions I've eliminated lately are good, but I couldn't live without emotion: although I had isolated myself from myself and life many times before, but…
I went through so many processes that ended in disappointment, but I assumed I was happy, and yes, my soul is deployed like the cloud of sadness hidden in the face of the glass mansion where I was imprisoned in absolute happiness.
Since it was logical for days.
I was on the road in my hump laden with mourning.
While I do not like the passers-by, nor do I want to deviate from my path.
Was it what I wanted or emulated?
Just going back ten or fifteen years ago and building a life out of my dreams that were scattered like mikado garbage, because before everything and everyone was concrete, now I live and love and write my life and feelings with a pen in a hurry, in order to make them concrete in an abstract world.
The movie was cut off suddenly, though this wasn't the first time.
Or have I come to an end? Oh, how wonderful it would be to emigrate from myself, of course, while I avenge the mistakes I made, how could I suddenly decide that it is not possible to dream new dreams from myself?
Sudden ending.
Separating yesterday from day.
I am not in touch with tomorrow.
If it was a recital, if I was the presentation of life, I was a reference to my failures, which were considered success, and I was continuing to unravel from where I left off at work.
I'm at a loss between existence and non-existence.
See the fall from the eye and to the ground.
The pale, temperamental sky, on the other hand, is that I was thrown away as much as I was exiled, but I refused to be consoled, maybe the defense mechanism had already collapsed.
Did I know if there was time or not?
Besides, I did not sign under that relative contract.
Whereas I am a prisoner on earth, my soul is devoted to eternity.
The pen, on the other hand, is that I cannot see my way forward like a malignant nightmare after I lost my instincts and the pen puts a rest on me and everyone.
Even though I try to come from where I go,
It is difficult to return to myself, now I know.
Now it's a late evening, early and uncountable
I let it break from the places it examined
I'm trying to connect something.
I numb my hard-to-repair parts with writings.
Me trying to explain something to everyone,
Ben, who is trying to duplicate the answer keys for everyone's problems,
I'm out now like someone who's lost their key.
I was already lost and lost the sun, while I loved the evening and the darkness even more now, even though it's dark, everywhere is bright and I can't write in the light.
If it was dark, I wished and relieved my distress in the dark, what was the fault of the sun?
Beyond that, what crime have I committed other than loving too much?
I met with the reader as much as I wrote and forgot myself, whereas I was already forgotten in the eyes of people and my realization of this was put on the back of my pen as an even heavier burden with a new disappointment.
Those who annotated my absence while believing that I exist.
While no one cares about my absence.
Even the pen has left me.
Although I'm not as surprised as I used to be an exclamation mark that has already ended the questioning.
However, I was at the peak of the pain and I couldn't open it as much as I couldn't open it.
The wind was blowing in the opposite direction again, and I could neither control the wind nor the destiny, when was my strength enough to go towards the course and I went back as far as I have ever gone, back, even far, far back from the point I started.
The next?
I cannot decide this, and only the reader can determine this, of course, while the joy and revenge of life are hidden in hope and love in faith...
Why is it difficult for people to love and believe?
Even if I believe in myself, after someone doesn't believe in me...
