Time is the story of a captive dream, and the motive to relive that moment hidden in the euthanized end of the minute hand between the quotes:
I compiled from the folk songs hidden in my memory book,
The naive projection of every poem
I should be sad even a little bit.
My ecstasy and witness, my God
In the pendulum of life where I am the cube of patience
Hidden in the courage I knit from my stampede dreams
I made a note in my singing inner voice
Figan-laden haza running in its lane
Every leaf fall
I must baste the dying day
I must avenge all the darkness that sided with the night.
If it's a daydream, I'm swinging inside
In the coal-black eyes of your lover,
I have to start living again
What's all the time I've wasted?
How many more days are ahead of me to mourn
Your past breathing on my neck,
Get rid of your musty-smelling breath
I must touch the future with a rush of blue.
If I'm a color, it's an outlier.
I am a soul seeking itself
My race with myself in a flood and here I start counting from end to end.
I am knitted in the color of dreams and I am a decent and well-mannered pain, but I know that I will not get anywhere by rushing into the secret hidden in yesterday as much as I can't open it.
It's like a dream school, I'm hidden in the dead slices of life and day, of course, in the time left from my dreams that I give credit to, while the happiness that I give to the truth does not come often, I know where I shut my door, but actually I am an enthusiastic wave of the sea I swim in, beyond the sliding floor under my feet, and sometimes shadows matching the wavelength and my face is turned only to Him.
There's nothing like living with my heart, since I'm knitting from broken hearts, I'm very busy at the school of life where I registered after my formal education period ends.
While what I wrote while it was the meaning of my inner voice and the thoughts that I could not record were the craziest wind of my fairy tale, which I had friction with myself during the day and with words like a fairy tale hero at night, I was born in the first sentence, crawled in the next paragraph, and when I reached the last sentence of the article, I was completely cut off from time and space.
Sometimes the skin of dreams is peeling off and after what I have written in the routine, I take on a different mood, of course, when I am filled with peace of mind because I have done my duty, I close my eyes close to the morning, and while my tired brain is resting, I unplug my lower memory because there is not enough room in my brain to store my dreams, is it just that? I play the three monkeys in my dreams where I travel in the dark, but when I wake up, I involuntarily sweep my disappointments under the bed.
Broken notes, sometimes prodding the silence and dandruff pouring out of my collar, the night and a gentle wind and the silence still have voices that pierce the night, maybe the residents of the neighborhood shouting after the entertainment, or the themes of people enjoying life more since the first day we went to normalization, on the other hand, in the bulletins. warning announcements and the number of daily cases that have taken up most of my life.
I am living and living the night with the mystery and haste that I am imprisoned, and I use my right to write three or four pages, which will make the day worthwhile, while I can't do anything else but to write.
Even if it cools a hot summer day and evening, I sew with a weak wind and regret, I sew the two worlds to life and writing, like maybe I put a separator on the rips of the night.
Syllables and numbers that escaped the Gregorian calendar.
The temperament is perhaps that we embrace every new day of life with hope, and that we have already put the previous day under our pillow.
Freedom, on the other hand, accompanies me from the moment I start to wander on the page with self-confidence and self-confidence.
I don't even know the name of that gypsy pink flower I bought after a tiring day, I just take it because I feel like it, I bring it home, I leave it in my mother's lap and I take a few steps back with the confidence and belief in social distance and the slightly darkening air signals me.
A stout moonlight swaying in the sky.
Even though I don't know my star chart, I know it's time for me to migrate to the heavens.
My temperament is unusual and just like the two names I have; I am the flower of the day, the star of the night.
Sometimes I contradict myself and in the early hours of the day, I leave the sky and the night, I leave the leaves to fall, but I am in trouble with my thorns, but at least three or five thorns pierce after the sack I have dipped into myself...
Of course, I can't stay silent, and whoever I meet during the day, I have an eternity-prone desire to tell. In the bookstore I went to, I walk to the safe full of books while I am stunned by the books, and while the cost of the books is guaranteed, I am smiling on the other hand, of course, I tell the cashier who accompanies me that I will explain the virtues of writing as much as reading a book that other customers enter the queue and it's night. I'm waiting for the time to write.
It is not an hour I wish, moreover, my muse is usually late for an appointment, but the books that I hug and leave on the table in any case whistle to me. Of course, I forget the tiredness of the day. When I go to the computer, I naively caress the books I live during the day when it is not tiredness but a sweet excitement. Although it is the address of making life livable and happiness, what I live and experience in my own world.
In fact, one wakes up to a different world every day. Even though everything seems the same, the angle of the sun, clouds and birds are different.
For this reason, life is never monotonous, even one's own mind and opinion changes. Even the thought of a moment ago can change.
