You are a burning season in the organized reality fixture in my high dreams, and your heart is wounded.
I never dream of lucid dreams: again, ghosts and whatever was hidden in yesterday, a magic wand touches my lower memory, and I suddenly change dimensions.
There are so many feelings that I vouch for in the warehouse of my heart.
Don't ask my thoughts, you know.
The first half of my life and my inner voice, which I lived with my logic and suppressed with my logic, and the countless people who set up the tent in my heart and my mood seem so calm and reasonable to people.
Literary and etiquette and a systematic educational process.
What is it, sir?
Formal education.
Long live, I'm in the first place and the period of pause when I said that I was advancing at full speed with my hunger for knowledge and learning like a gentle butterfly, with countless certificates of achievement and a lot of fairness-laden diplomas and my long sleepless years and the wealth of knowledge that I cross-legged.
My age range is in my twenties.
Then, after ignoring those who shout that life is a school, taking a break from my professional life, returning to formal education and graduating from a department that has nothing to do with me, I made a choice of my own free will, and here is the revenge of my life:
Long live the academic career.
My inner voice has just stepped in and I parrot-like I swallow theories and memorize and give priority to my soul in my systematic search.
My soul.
My miserable body.
My heart is like a prancing horse and I almost fit the whole world inside me.
The rhythmic chants of the universe and my being alone in a huge desert…
I, on the other hand, am chasing a buffoon dream that is a candidate to become a desert flower, and here is the beginning of the end, while I supposedly opened wings to a new life, a new profession, and did not know that happiness is butterfly-lived.
Those who collect behind me what I spill.
Everywhere is a piece of heart.
Everywhere are my sorrows, which I have enjoyed with a spiritual respite.
As I was about to finish the marathon at the beginning, I was left alone and the way of loneliness was…
The tissue is rotten.
I don't write poignant poems yet.
While I was unaware of what was going to happen to me, I was chafing myself with my belief and love for the existence of psychology, like a crashing car with my analytical intelligence.
My cup is empty.
My bag is tight.
Colors contrast with my feelings.
Years ago, when I would think that a life in which I did not read poetry and did not write poetry, would be poetry itself, and my sense of belonging is deplorable, although I could easily be included in any group, anywhere, when an end that I did not know would put me in a corner.
I'm at a dead end.
at a dead end.
The dead end is a culture that is no longer missing in my literature and I do not question in detail where I came from and where I am going, but when I went to the supreme court, I suddenly forget everything I know in an unknown direction, even my name and who I am.
It is not a shop to be liquidated, you know, my inner world.
My search, which I spread over a period of ten years, first started out as a banker and then decided to work as a teacher.
My career search exploded, in fact, after I lost myself, I changed my perspective, in other words, the exploding mechanism of my self: the sun that gave me the herald that it was born for me, while my miserable soul, which I matched to nothingness when I said I was collapsing in every sense, and my remaining miserable soul was stuck in a dungeon.
What about the seasons?
Is it cold?
Never.
Is it too hot?
When it's getting cold.
Is it humid weather?
There is not a single cloud.
So what time is it?
The twenty-fifth hour of the night is a new beginning for me, and I have stepped into a process where I will realize too late that I have sailed to poetry and moreover, I have lived my life like poetry.
How many steps did I take?
Or how many thousand sentences did I say?
I don't have a pedometer, the interesting thing is, I don't count my words, but I have a great love mixed with respect.
While I was writing with love, I couldn't get enough of explaining everything I wanted to perform in the poetic rhythm and timbre and extraordinary presence of life and my inner journey captured me.
