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Description
THE GARDEN

I can't write... My pen is getting heavier like a sledgehammer whenever I hold it up, then it smacks down onto my head; desperately. Sometime I succeed to reunite the pen and the sheet; however a dispute and a wind of yelling break out rather than fullfilling their longing. Sounds are like a little naughty girl scratching the blackboard; and I can't stand and pulling my pen back. These groanings never gets out of my mind; whenever my pen tries to lay down my mind drawns into darkness and these groanings rise up.

Indeed, I never hesitated from writing. Sometimes even one sentence was enough, and starting from there I was travelling among the gardens of my subconscious; full of beauties, secrets, surprises... As long as I found them and brought onto daylight, I laid them down onto the sheet one by one in a kind, fragile manner. Because I was anxious about what if I can't behave them as they deserve.

Sometimes not a sentence, even a word might not be in my hands. When that happens, I was throwing dints at the top of the sheet till a letter comes up. Then, it was pulling me down inside like a black hole, I was dragged through the whole page by the unknown power; maybe a beam of feel as bright and lively as light.

After some, I slowed down to breath. I saw that I was not caring, the word "neat" was dead. My beautiful garden, the roses wilted and was waiting, their heads down with a yellow shame; mouths of birds with bright wings were sealed; the excitement of rivers were ceased; the air was filled by an absmal hopelessness; skies were crying sorrow and that was interwining with the earth inch by inch. The earth got cracked apart by the raining sorrow; it was lying down with thirst like its sprit was vacuumed away. Then, I turned my head to the park, the toys were broken down; moulded and rusted because of the sorrow. Those lively, pure, naive, innocent, the meaning of the life kids were sitting down in the earsplitting silence in a shady corner. Their knees were pulled up to their chest and their hands were tied on their knees; and they were swinging back and forward. Kids were shivering since the evil sprit was stroming; their lips, little lips, were shaking hopelessly. The glitter on their eyes was perished.

Having this as the case, there is always a pessimism and sorrow droping down from my pen, and the sheet is drawning in the blood every time after I wrote something. I was making the pure hearted sheets live the same pains every time. My subconscious had turned into a swamp, there is not even a little glitter; any of them is engulfed immediately. Although I deadly wanted to prenvent my mind from being a slave to the world which become a whole fail, I let it happen myself. That swamp must get dried, the sun must rise again with all its glorious; flowers, birds and rivers must wake up; and kids have to smile and play again and forever... Then, other swamps must be found and dried.

THE LIGHT...

Description
THE GARDEN

I can't write... My pen is getting heavier like a sledgehammer whenever I hold it up, then it smacks down onto my head; desperately. Sometime I succeed to reunite the pen and the sheet; however a dispute and a wind of yelling break out rather than fullfilling their longing. Sounds are like a little naughty girl scratching the blackboard; and I can't stand and pulling my pen back. These groanings never gets out of my mind; whenever my pen tries to lay down my mind drawns into darkness and these groanings rise up.

Indeed, I never hesitated from writing. Sometimes even one sentence was enough, and starting from there I was travelling among the gardens of my subconscious; full of beauties, secrets, surprises... As long as I found them and brought onto daylight, I laid them down onto the sheet one by one in a kind, fragile manner. Because I was anxious about what if I can't behave them as they deserve.

Sometimes not a sentence, even a word might not be in my hands. When that happens, I was throwing dints at the top of the sheet till a letter comes up. Then, it was pulling me down inside like a black hole, I was dragged through the whole page by the unknown power; maybe a beam of feel as bright and lively as light.

After some, I slowed down to breath. I saw that I was not caring, the word "neat" was dead. My beautiful garden, the roses wilted and was waiting, their heads down with a yellow shame; mouths of birds with bright wings were sealed; the excitement of rivers were ceased; the air was filled by an absmal hopelessness; skies were crying sorrow and that was interwining with the earth inch by inch. The earth got cracked apart by the raining sorrow; it was lying down with thirst like its sprit was vacuumed away. Then, I turned my head to the park, the toys were broken down; moulded and rusted because of the sorrow. Those lively, pure, naive, innocent, the meaning of the life kids were sitting down in the earsplitting silence in a shady corner. Their knees were pulled up to their chest and their hands were tied on their knees; and they were swinging back and forward. Kids were shivering since the evil sprit was stroming; their lips, little lips, were shaking hopelessly. The glitter on their eyes was perished.

Having this as the case, there is always a pessimism and sorrow droping down from my pen, and the sheet is drawning in the blood every time after I wrote something. I was making the pure hearted sheets live the same pains every time. My subconscious had turned into a swamp, there is not even a little glitter; any of them is engulfed immediately. Although I deadly wanted to prenvent my mind from being a slave to the world which become a whole fail, I let it happen myself. That swamp must get dried, the sun must rise again with all its glorious; flowers, birds and rivers must wake up; and kids have to smile and play again and forever... Then, other swamps must be found and dried.

THE LIGHT...