I didn't know that I was faithful to my dreams because every dream was a trap to fall into, before I turned to my lower memory of the truth and its hook, after all, every hidden item was indispensable for me, of course.
It was always me who came to the injury, and what's up, I built it for a lifetime, and in a moment of anger, I destroyed the towers I erected, moreover, the dwellings that I acquired with my wrist, even countless paradises.
I can't predict where my words will go, but I'm free diving, I don't interfere with my pen if it's just a matter of time to write it...
What I have erased in a pen, what I have seen and who I have seen, my dreams are still constantly reminding me of whatever/whoever I need to forget, I cannot break away from my past and my most frequent dream - more precisely, a nightmare - and I lost after the struggle I gave in the lecture halls where I could not get my diploma. system I fell for.
Maybe it's the system inside me that has lost its function, and it feels like just yesterday...
It's like yesterday, when I embraced my heartfelt bond with my workplace, files and all transactions like a child, when I had a lot of bonuses in the charter and peaked in budget analysis.
When I know my yesterday and tomorrow.
And I'm disconnected from the day.
Possible defeat and grievance hidden in tomorrow.
All this time spent without a pen, the pen dominated me in the eyes of a few years full of ignorance that spanned almost three quarters of my life and when I said I was content with just reading books, I didn't even want to see the books.
Emotions and thoughts that I haven't been able to put into action for days, I don't like anything I write, I punished myself badly and emptied myself into the trash with no return, there is nothing I like anyway, lately, where are my numerous features that I find fault with most, both physically and mentally and on the basis of thought? I put myself in the ground.
What I have struggled to give up is that in the last ten years of my life, I lost especially in my struggle with myself, and I deceived myself with temporary victories and I blamed myself only and again on myself in my unsuccessful human relations.
Even though it wasn't easy after I took care of my dreams until ten years ago and I realized it, my achievements were not easily, after all, I am a property that I love very much, and many people suddenly turned away, moreover, after loving and owning them in every period of my life, I was the side that was abandoned, moreover, many people with whom I was related by blood. and adopted as my brother even though I am not related by blood.
Did we add the material losses…
My inner voice, which I've been stuck with for days, is an external voice.
Whatever is possible, almost everything that I am convinced that there is nothing I can do anymore, but that I still strive incessantly, but which is recorded in my memory as a loss.
I can be a prospective poppy with my color and turn from pink to white.
Maybe I put the pen that threatens even the dark day and turns the vastness inside me into a shallow cove, and then suddenly shuts up and gets angry at me, I lay down on the table, almost every day, besides myself, which I put on the table almost every day, and as a result of dealing with unnecessary troubles, I distanced myself from life and contradicted myself.
The river of sadness.
Storm dark.
Black hole from celestial bodies.
I, on the other hand, have dreams that I could not visualize as a living creature on earth because many things that I had rested were added to this caravan.
My heart's route is where I am purified from my feelings and disconnected from the world and become cold and the body of the pen carries bad smells to my nose and mind every day, while the pen turns pink with embarrassment while I carry the darkness to every hour of the day in my dungeon.
Under the title of literally nothingness, I am most proud of my mind, while the arrows I aim at myself and the gun I put on my head, of course, because the pen is a threat, I couldn't beat whatever fell on me and I blacklisted myself when I was myself.
The texture is perhaps life and when I let myself go into the void rather than a soft landing and crash into the bottom of the abyss but still fail to die, but there is no sparkle that gives enthusiasm in any function of my body with my dead soul and dead heart.
Of course, when I went for a long walk and found myself in bookstores and emptied my pocket a lot while sweating a lot, but I was not satisfied with the books I bought, but also when I saw that I didn't like them, I only got angry with myself again.
The hot July sun and the angry me and the last ten days when I saw that there was nothing left to break and I became numb, and I was surprised at how I wrote so many articles and poems, and on top of that, I broke the peace with myself unilaterally in my agreement and signed it: my resignation petition from life and literature.
While summer doesn't like it anyway and…
While my miserable pen softly screams at me "write" and I wrote three or five pages to silence your voice and crushed the head with my own hands, and I sent all the pages I wrote to the space dump with one click because I decided that I could not make any of my dreams come true and all my mother's dreams are halal like white milk this time with my own hands. It is an indisputable fact that I ended up losing my faith in myself and even the whole world in every matter.
While I was a happy person with details, I couldn't figure out what I was doing in the world lately, when I looked at the picture in general and saw everything as an endless void, and this article is also a reflection of giving up on everything as if supporting the theory of a world that I am burdened with with my existence.
The trigger of hope and…
Of course, in the world where I hid and swayed in the presence of my Mawla, the power he gave me, and the power of faith, I sometimes lay down in bunches and live without touching life, without being read one step further, and my desire to write, while it is the result of my readings, is shattered.
I stole my dreams for once, even if it was only once, while other people had stolen it, most of all, while the black hole I fell into swallowed while I was proud of my imagination, being reborn in a sense, while being the summary of all the details that I couldn't reflect, is of course the miraculous breeze of my pen. and the only thing that revives me in its existence is the love, faith and trust I have for this unknown and the entire universe.
And yes, who knows how many times I will fall down and who knows how many times it will snow on the mountains I trust again, but I have always loved the cold and the white, moreover, I have no choice but to write down that accumulation that has been created in me for the last ten days as I have accumulated a lot of emotions in my bundle of sadness and pain. Of course, I wrote my writing with all my naturalness, with the belief I had in your existence, and with the belief that I had developed an impromptu defeat and disappointment and that I was forgotten, who actually forgot me and life when I was me.
