Even though it was spring, I was still cold

Did I really have a wish; was it a pre-death order or did I wish for a wish, yet I didn't give it a chance and tried with all my might not to think about what was going through my mind.

Loneliness was my principle; loneliness was my truth and I was the longest path between two points, after all, I always pointed my ear backwards.

I was a toothy wind, or maybe a short-legged colt.

Or did I miss my childhood days when I used to make colts?

Nothing mattered, it was my nothingness that dazzled my eyes and the power of being reborn every day.

There was an accented language in the dreams and dreams of life and how happy and hopeful I was when I took the previous night into account.

I flew like a butterfly, but I couldn't even guess that my relationships with the people I loved had the life span of a butterfly.

Words were the apparatus hidden in the heart.

Love was the most delicate partition.

It was the universe that taught me that nothingness is an art.

And the phases of life, after all, development was a never-ending process that accompanied human life, and here is my starting point, because I was a hidden and folded trace in the office of nothingness, whose secret was endless, whose identity was unknown and whose freedom was taken away from the first day.

I was a reasonable wind in pursuit of dreams.

I was a song with a lost rhythm and a contrary composition.

My words were a rhythmless song and I was walking up and down the steep slopes of the city, like a goldfinch on a high-paved street or a seagull walking in the middle of the road.

The people of the world were reading fairy tales and I, like Vlad the Impaler, could not quell the rage of the cauldron boiling inside me.

I was a Roma girl and a Roman numeral.

All the curtains and behind the curtains recorded in my memory.

My fluttering skirts and hair and my crazy heart and the whispers of the universe were the projection of my existence as much as I was fond of my nothingness as much as I was fond of my nothingness and as much as I was hidden in the office of nothingness, I couldn't stop myself from thinking and I was lost in the vastness of my imagination until the last year, but now?

If I am a story, I emulate.

If I am a poem, I am sliced.

If I am a novel, I have no foreword and I put the final point at the very beginning.

I was a seasonal ritual, a chase of the wind blowing and blowing and a white moan hidden in the curtain of the heart or a howl from the absent, and here it was slowly snowing on my hair and the calm river inside me had finally dried up and how hard I had tried to create that calmness and that narrow corridor I was traveling back and forth with my crazy nature, perhaps the raging wind hidden in the cloister of my mind and the handrail of loneliness.

I was trying to be like someone, just someone.

Like children playing leapfrog, I suddenly transformed into another mood or my desire to transform.

I even missed my sadness.

I had observed the path of the season and there was neither coming nor going, and for the last ten days I have been cultivating and cultivating emotions in the field of the heart and only dealing with restlessness.

Whatever my soul is inclined to.

My dreams that I saw with my eyes open while they were a detour.

That dizziness that wouldn't go away had finally left me, but it was actually me who left me and I couldn't get away from the brainless shadows and I couldn't get away from myself and how I reflected my unhappiness to the whole world with the longing for a world without myself.

I was a tight budget where I was suddenly buried in unhappiness when I shook hands with happiness and I never knew what would happen beforehand.

It was a shapeless picture, perhaps the last stop of the ghosts and I was somehow planted while I was alive: well, would it be like this when I died, but I had put my back on both fate and my Lord and my back was never broken while I was alive, although people were doing their best to make me sad, but...

What did it mean to be defeated?

Or what did victimization mean?

Like a cactus living in a forgotten pot at the bottom of the wall, the creatures on the other side of the wall looked like anything but human beings.

The truth had turned pale.

Hazard roses were giving color.

Even though it was spring, I was still cold.

I had succumbed to the fate of my cardigan and words were pouring out of its pockets and I was following the crumbs pouring out of my soul and here I was the memorandum of the modesty-laden sky and while I was loving and living in a proper language, my dreams were necessarily curbed and I closed my eyes suddenly and I was about to disappear. I learned to be content with what slipped out of my hands, in fact, I was the only one left behind, and I was denouncing the earth like a goldfinch hopping in the backyard of a pale day, and I was denouncing the earth to Mevla, and more than I thought had accumulated in me, and I just mumbled before falling asleep:

Tomorrow God forbid...