i just got in to write something, i felt like bursting out all the turmoil that has been inside me the past three days, i realize i couldn't  i realized i cant , i cant take out anything of whatever i feel or think, it is like a pyramid of bricks that is really full and as soon as you place a feather, oh imagine the force of a feather, the pyramid will collapse. collapse.. that easy, ha , i think i have to dismiss my self of duties, no, actually not duties, dismiss me of life perhaps itself. i must say i haven't reached far but , it isn't about how far, but how, how did i end up here, up to here, well it couldn't be easier or harder, who can even define easy hard, so confusing terms attached so closely to one another. i haven't really thought about it, well not so oft as i thought i would. and then again here with a cup of coffee standing by my side for the rest of the willingly endless night of mine , abiding quietly with all my thoughts, belongings or even better, remainings  if i might call them this way and then again this turmoil is put back to silence put back safely in its chamber like a beast heading to its refuge.. a place without mirrors, without reflections of flesh, mind or soul... oh but yes now i can see, the existence of a soul, a hiding shivering soul, terrified and terrifying all at the same time , look at it and you will see a face of oblivious, grey and non existence, and then again so radiant so loud, screaming on top of its voice with mouthful of butterflies , see the word butterfly closely , it is really a perspective of lies, isnt it, it quite is.. oh and then scattered in a corner, a meaningless action if i must point it so, a soul that has really everything, and yet what is really everything in this life. then you face this window, this filthy window to the outside, out of those walls, these walls that scream around you ticking the sound of a coin that touches the ground for so many endless moments , again and again, it is a reminder indeed. and then again you reach for the light out of that window with that ripped Bordeaux curtain, trying to distinguish the noise, this gallantly rhythm i must say of the drops, the rain... how is it that a drop falling on iron, a man made product, and yet the sound of a drop on grass, flowers, mud..... how is it yet that the reflection of a drop on a window a man made product, once more, is a stain, and yet a drop of it on mud is a real art.. how is it now that av written for so long and want to hide under the blankets again, untouched,  by   all means , exposed to the open of a story, exposed to a neutral rather than happy ending , and yet i close my eyes, shading all thoughts, within the shade of night and darkness, until day comes, again , and again, and again....until........