I'm escaping the narrow world I'm trapped in to keep alive

After spending the whole day in darkness, I leaned on the night and of course my eyes pierced the darkness before.

While the night was a handover ceremony with the most self-satisfied gaze, I had already kicked the day out of the door, and the night had come and settled in the corner.

I think I have exercised my right to be a rabbit again, because I persistently chewed the top of my pen. There is so much emptiness that gnaws at me tonight.

The heartbeat of my pen, which I could neither make a prophecy nor end my captivity and find courage, my heart rhythm went out of whack.

Keeping my inner world alive as long as I live, and that it is not possible for me to escape from the narrow world I am trapped in, so I passed through the door of a very different world and integrated with my love of writing and questioned whether I could match other authors' books while reading the books of other authors, and here is the big mistake I fell into. chaos.

I refused.

I was rejected.

Although there is no concrete indication that my sixth sense has never failed me.

Maybe it's like a stampede in a city dumpster: my countless essays and stories and poems, which I unconsciously euthanized at the touch of a button, while the tens of articles and hundreds of pages I wrote did not please me.

If I am imitated, I want to solve by writing whether I have a chance to manufacture it from myself and to get relief as soon as possible about everything that is unknown both about myself and about the world.

The last novel that I just traveled with, reveals the inner world of an author I love.

Since he is a writer that I have grown in my eyes, to acquire almost all his works and to take inspiration from the worlds he has fictionalized.

But that blessing that I can't get is actually hidden inside of me. I have made a bunch of sentences out of the feelings that another me has lived and lived through, as if the flowers that bloomed will never fade.

As I divide the day, so do I.

Is it because I don't get along well with myself in whatever way I emulate, or because the letters in the alphabet have not been enough lately.

There is nothing that I am satisfied with, you know, there is only a limited amount of things I can do besides putting my motherless feelings on my radar and presenting myself to myself.

It is obvious that it is relative, because after all that I have done and accomplished, it is not always acceptable to live and write with care. The implication that I am the one who is not accepted after all, I want to destroy what I have been through.

Like everyone else?

Never.

So am I nobody?

I do not accept this either, although I do not accept it, there are many things and many people that I do not accept, moreover, at my feet, even at my bedside, and when I open my eyes, everyone vanishes.

The fact that the facts that I come across in this fantasy world, which I feel beyond being intimate with the words pouring out of my fingertips, are too boring.

Of course, that abstract world that I was transferred to while writing.

The moment is coming, and I want to transform my thoughts into a tangible entity, and then my feelings, and my own is a very different world than what I see from the voices I hear: my inner world and the heavy pressure on me that is starting to disappear.

What I found and brought together in the antennas of the world I built myself by writing, after a life in which I obeyed the authority was finally disabled.

I am not a person who likes easily, moreover, I am not pleased with myself at first, but I have discovered after the last three or five years that I have managed to love myself, and not the Rose that people visualize, but only a person inside out, of course, teleporting from the realm of dreams to life and perhaps vice versa. here is that nothing but writing with the sweat of my heart has given me such courage and peace.

Peace is such a relative concept.

In the eyes of silence, the heart of the pen that beats regularly and my concern and effort to make the impossible possible.

I gave up sitting down to write.