I am waiting like a child moving in the climates of my interior!

I am like a flower swaying on the hem of the season.

A wild rhododendron, perhaps, that is open to the scepter of love.

The seasons are spring and the city fire has just subsided. It is as if there is another me exploding inside me.

I have passed through the days of sighing and here I am, a star swinging in the nothingness, there is still time for my hour of grace.

The compartments of sadness are the compartments of the day and that drawer I hide in: neither a cash register nor an ordinary shelf. I am a pain reflecting the mystery in which I find solace: I am neither flirtatious nor ordinary, I am a noble wind and there is nothing I wish for except for the two sides of peace to come together.

The sooty face of the sky.

The foggy sea of the city.

The whistles of a ferry whistle and I'm in bed.

Apart from the poems I have woven from my sleepover dreams and the three or five stories I have written, I actually know that life consists of a poem, of course, in my previous life, when my path had not yet crossed with poems.

Nowadays, everywhere is poetry and I am a huge draft consisting of thousands of poetry compartments, maybe all my draft is related to writing better, and here are thousands of pages that I annotate and before I started writing, I could not find the pleasure and peace of reading in anything, then I moved away from reading for many years and suddenly I found myself writing.

It hasn't been ten years since I met my pen and nowadays an insidious wind is triggering the pen's urge not to write, of course, I can't write every hour of the day, but every day of my life, even many hours of every day lately, while I spend many hours of every day with sadness and while I can't get my head away from those who break my heart and I'm offended and even angry with the regiment, and now my enthusiasm for writing against myself seems to have faded and slowed down.

However, the embarrassment and stupor that overtakes me when I write without taking my speed or when I think faster than my speed and put it on paper, and the words I am familiar with sometimes do not offer me any feeling, and my path through the phases I go through coincides with unhappiness, and I do not know who to turn to, and I come and go, a period of time when I cannot even resign from the nothingness I anchor in my own dock and give myself.

There are so many things I cannot realize.

Like a child moving in the climates of my interior.

For example.

While I never felt like tying my shoelaces and I never felt like tying my shoelaces, and while the insistence to go out on the street and kick the soles for hours or even days was defeated, the more I distanced myself from myself, after all, while the most dull feeling created by writing was the most dull feeling that writing created in me, I got closer to myself and the alluring words, the firmament in which I hung, winked at me and called me from afar.

Like an emblem.

A metaphor perhaps.

I am out of harmony with myself and the only way to become harmonious is through writing.

In my previous life, when I experienced similar things over and over again and of course my disappointment was largely human-oriented.

That resentment that reflected on me from a few people I believed in my heart and trusted to the end, and that thought that I was writing the novel or novels of my life with the selected sentences that were left behind and that I threw the sentences that were not actually my job into the dirty bag and then into the space garbage.

A long time ago, when I was working as a paid English teacher while waiting for my appointment to be made, and the mathematics lessons I attended in public schools so that the classes would not be empty, almost the whole school and this led to a misunderstanding and I was questioned by the inspector and when I came home, my documents returned from the ministry and the fact that I decided not to teach that day and entered a dark tunnel.

I had a similar experience before.

I worked in a few banks and could not find the environment I was looking for, and I ended my banking career with a sudden decision I made with the effect of the process called mobbing.

In the last few years, I have experienced worse, this time due to the health problems in my family, I have come to the point of being completely fed up and disconnected from life and realized the meaninglessness of life.

I realized too late that my losses and dreams were stolen by my best friend.

Whatever I cannot prevent, the bill is always cut to me and the price I pay is unhappiness with interest, whatever is hidden in my dream wind, punctuated by despair, and of course, in order not to return to the years when I retreated to seclusion until eternity, I must necessarily reconcile with my pen, as well as the pressure and restlessness created by other things I need to do in my peace plan with myself.

Today is the first day of Eid and it has gone down in history as a very good day and whoever I loved was with me and since I had been working very hard for days, I sat at the table again, not knowing and not calculating what would happen in my night meeting with my pen, and it seems that the weather has softened considerably, which is probably the universe's Eid gift to me.

When I consider my acquaintance with my pen and my endless struggle with myself, many reasons for me to write appeared on my road map again, and when my tongue and my pen sweetened after the Turkish delight I ate, I celebrate your tomorrows with all my heart.