It is possible that I have come to an end with the destruction of being cut off from life

Like yesterday.

More than enough though.

Like a day.

There was no tomorrow in my dictionary anymore.

It stretches before me like a road.

Was I an innkeeper?

Never.

Was I a passenger?

What I don't know…

I planted dreams, which I planted inside me like a rose seedling that ended at the end of the feelings I showered and I fixed my eyes on the top…

Yesterday's dilemma was that I had rips to sew.

There were teeth marks on my wrist, I wonder what time of death was it?

Give up the taste of rust on my tongue, the pendulum of life I say...

Maybe I was a stash, maybe a stalagmite.

Or was I headstrong, but I was insistent as much as I stood upright, so as not to stray from my path.

Sometimes I go uphill and suddenly fall into the void.

Sometimes I fell into a pit or mud, just like a bird while bouncing on the school road yesterday, I was on the roof of a school that was hidden so far in the center of Istanbul, where I worked as a volunteer teacher, as the only foreign language teacher of almost all the classes of the whole school, oh, this love that I fell into. While I'm living the best time of my life, I hope it doesn't end.

Seasons and.

Every season with hope.

And here's to a new day, a new week, a new season, hundreds of emotions and sentences that crossed my mind, both for the sake of writing to the day, to life and to the season.

What I am addicted to is that I am the slave and work of enthusiasm and love.

And the tiredness has already escaped from my vocabulary.

I could not sew my rips.

The cruel and evil that I stand up for.

While I dream of becoming an angel and flying, it's hard to believe, but I personally experience this feeling, while the lines that make me sad sometimes, I get lost in the worlds and lines that I read with enthusiasm and sometimes I am also the projection of the belief and love built into me, while the meaning of life is necessarily blended with love.

Life is sometimes a cookie.

Life is sometimes the main menu.

Love is a nature, sometimes a fugitive, sometimes a storm.

While my soul flying in a metaphorical breeze and my pure heart and the equivalent of the love I keep pure, thousands of butterflies accompanying my heart every time my pen is read, of course, is considered a superhuman love, sometimes I am accepted as much as I am extraordinary and sometimes I am rejected by people.

And here is the life I rest and withdraw into my shell.

My only leverage is my destiny and my almighty Lord, in which every beauty I set my head on on my way through love and faith sometimes scatters and sometimes I cry while it hurts my heart, and if I wiped my tears and tears when it was the image and nature of being human, I was relieved and surrendered in the wind of the angels.

Since it was logical for days.

While I mourn my privacy.

While we've tried everything that's unreasonable...

The rope I hang on sometimes.

Sadness that is sometimes suspenseful.

Sometimes when I fly like a vine leaf and swing, and when I stumble upon work, I am looking into the eyes of people to present my hidden success, most of all my exposure, sometimes I am the wind and thrown out of their door, sometimes I turn into smoke and smoke in the chimney of love, and sometimes I come across the void that I touch with my trembling hands, my nothingness and myself.

If it's a line, I emulate it.

I'm fluttering with a heart.

If it's a rift, I'm buried in it.

If it's a lie, I don't care, and see that while life and cruelty sometimes stigmatize people, I am reunited with my Lord and myself with the peace and enthusiasm of writing and the life I have commented on.

One sound effect is the sound of a dripping tap.

A sound effect is the ticking of the ringing clock.

A sound effect is my stomach rumbling and I suppress my hunger with a glass of water, but I also feed myself by loving myself more.

Besides, what crime have I committed other than loving?

Those who annotated my absence while believing that I exist.

While no one cares about my absence.

Even the pen has left me.

Was it out of date or leftover from the day?

As far as I know, on the ninth anniversary of my acquaintance with the pen, when I extinguished the candle with sadness and a huge fire that would arise from sparks caught my eye.

While I had cut off my connection with myself, I was cut off from life.

Unspoken but happened to me.

A huge love hidden in my heart that never leaves me.

While the fire of the lost is not extinguished and the pain is already expired.

Believing is necessarily: My Lord first and even if I am sure of myself, I will be able to hold my outstretched hand like a climate, a wind or a branch, in order to hold on to life, but only most of all, my heart is seared, but my hope is suddenly lost and created out of nothing, with the belief that I will migrate to my Lord. that the probability of it coming to an end with deep pain and destruction outweighs.

the next?

Of course, when I do my part and can't go beyond being patient, you can see that even though I am both in love and troubled on the side of the world and people, it is the equivalent of keeping my feeling of trust hidden, my heart eye that accompanies every particle of faith, and the life and myself that I return to for the sake of love.

To love and to believe, moreover, I approach others with the trinity of trust, respect and love and leave the rest to Allah while I lay my head on the pillow with such peace of mind.