In the depth of my pain, there is nothing left for me

I keep my dreams suspended: I tend to be the ratchet of a tired rope, and suddenly, when that rope breaks, I fall into the pit of hell, and after I am a relative being, I also end my unadulterated dreams.

Since most of my feelings, which are difficult to reject, are perhaps ignored, since it is only a matter of time before I leave my cell where I am imprisoned, and if the person who vanished into the secret is the feeling that I am so preoccupied with, I can't wrap myself up.

I'm not the only one with the scars.

It's not just a patched jacket, it's one size too big on me, maybe it's about to disappear inside me and like a wig with a burnt bridle, is it to break the only branch I hold on to, or to end the whole thing, and here's the dampness of that closet where I hang with my unironed soul, my breath is clogged and I want to get back out. Of course, thanks to those who played the three monkeys from the locked cabinet, I am buried in the darkness.

The wind that plays with the leaves is a little wild and my instinct to put my weight and own each leaf.

If it is a torn fabric, the redness in the texture of the sky, maybe the season's burning skirts are deceiving me, after all, neither raining nor excessive cold weather and here the birds are bouncing on the slope of the sky, after all their wings have been stolen, just like the dominance of the night with the frost, I question my humanity and humanity. .

I remain indifferent, like everyone else, then my conscience hurts and I continue where I left off.

In October, he went and did what he would do on foot, moreover, he did not take it on himself, I just witness the transitions of the season, almost as if I was a madrasah where I took shelter, I use my right to be the most insane creature in the sky, where I believe I was protected.

An ancient impulse, perhaps, is what is enumerated in the turmoil within me…

While it's my reality that I never like second-hand goods, even though I live in bookstores instead of second-hand booksellers, and just because I should be the first to read them, I gently embrace all the books in front of my eyes, and I form a special bond with the books by owning them regardless of their cost.

What has emerged recently is that I am able to transfer to the world of long-dead writers, whom I have developed empathy for and never have the opportunity to meet, and live in parallel with them with my timeless and spaceless publications, on top of the inspiration I got from the pens I matched with after wondering about the inner worlds of the writers and researching their lives. The long journey that I have come to terms with and set out with.

The life he led, his unique style, and the countless texts and foresights he put into his short life while he was going through difficult times, and the conditions under which he wrote his works are quite thought-provoking.

Spiritual ups and downs.

The troubles he experienced in the clinics he was treated and his search for self.

Just as each book presents a different world to us, and the stories that are published are the life stories of the authors.

Dreams that coincide with Kafka.

Hundreds of emotions that spend most of the day writing and are trapped inside, while their occupation may seem like a fake, while pulling the veil of rememberable yesterday and carrying very different breezes from those experienced today.

Flowing dirt from your heart.

Perhaps to refer to spiteful people.

Many nationalities hidden in that stubborn right angle, thousands of sentences teleported from past to present when pain and distress have no nationality, and their lives that they refuse to be pompous...

The eyes of the day are twitching and the sun has already left the geography I live in, and here I am changing my clothes and dedicating myself to the night and literature.

Commandments in my ID.

Fading ink mark on my ID.

That it never matters who I am.

Neither my identity as a reader nor my fondness for writing is important at this juncture, because I think and feel like crazy in order to get out of the dead-end street that I have deviated from, that the artist whose life has crossed my path, who has cost me so many books and literature, will shed light on me with my helpless identity.

Of course, I am writing in a never-ending quest and struggling, as I travel through their inner worlds, I realize the difficulties experienced one by one.

While every sheep is hanging by their own leg and every writer is hanging from their pen, and I am free from the grip of my life, I am the only reality where thousands of emotions that I can't get over with my face turned to night, and I can't fit into the sky while I struggle to put my life on the road with the love of writing.

What I want to say to someone and even whoever is under my nose and the shadows that ignore me so much that even my shadow is disturbing them.

And while the turmoil of the age we live in, the people of our age, who are captive to the developing technology, are such that this technological bondage that takes up a lot of time for children and adults, and while I only benefit from the blessings of this technology for the sake of knowledge and literature, sometimes I feel far behind the times, even one step ahead of the love I feel for books. These last eight years that I have been dealing with my love of writing.

In the depth of my pain, there is nothing left for me.

Even the pride of my perception of my loneliness.