Each has his own pupil. Each pupil judges things differently. Each thing is besieged by priorities in considerations each has.
Me and my pen are so isolated to any other. What kind of bond is it? That strange income to delight me when I write with this pen my words even the negatives? What thing is it? Then do I ask these questions to seek opinions? We wonder, we wonder according to various destinations, millions of concepts. Visiting our acceptance to opinionated letters, we find it sometimes wrong to accept opinions. But sometimes, my handwriting is very primitive to face those readers. Somehow, my words disappoint me as a reader. In a storm I find my soul with these words, in a place where I can’t decide what’s coming or what to wait.
I learn eagerly to feed my own, to impress their talks. I do many things for the benefit of us, all of us, to reach the better. I study, many majors, but why am i put in majorities?
Then I teach, get back home tired and sick of responsibilities settled on my sholder; life becomes repeatedly boring, rude kids increasing in the class and I, I have been working at the same school, and my footprint touched every point of the floor, the same floor. Many students live happiness in their phones, addiction ate huge parts of this happiness. And many, find pleasure in teasing me. At the end of the week I hang out to breathe with my friends, one talks about her husband as he left her in the hardest of times, one works in arts where life didn’t give it back, one is welcomed back from her travel preparing for the other. It’s crazy how we differ, crazier how we forget everything when together, wild laughs as we are paid for it. Then I run back home, with my messy hair ruined by the heavy rain out there but for then i couldn’t differ between my tears and those angry drops, couldn’t know where anger is. My friends talk about me as a birdsong, and I think of them as a love song, but what songs can face realities in this case? What memory? How to fix if my friends talk about their friends? And we talk about we? They suddenly tell me my job is boring, and my eye bags are darker than their intentions for me, i hear them saying.
I sing vibes with a violinist who throws flowers on my chest while I simply sing. He keeps telling me that warm words won’t give me a permanent degree, won’t build me a decent family. “Create your song and a young Juvenile sweet lady will take the lights you inflate with all your energy”. You see how easygoing is it to him? To break a bone or to steal a passion I have for my job. Then me? My kids how will they cope with that lady’s quick influence? How will my daughter lean on my musings? How will my albums inspire a youthful complaint son who waits to grow up thinking that independence will save him. I don’t think I’m ready to sacrifice my life to a desire I might and might not be righteous at. I might not fit, and that violinist might be totally inspired by tones of wisdom and great expectations that his words are in its suitable place. The safe road makes me sceptic, but now I won’t assist my heart, my will. I won’t go any far, far dreams are not fairy but simply not so familiar to me, not to my mysterious concerns as a mom and a divorced prey.
He tells me not to listen so often, and my eye should look at my own life before any other. He tells me an experience he has to prevent me from forfeiture. “I studied business for my father’s enthusiast to make me a version of himself, he selected a university somewhere in London where his wealthy foe studied so he thought maybe I could learn the same things he had in his brain. He paid much money than he thought he would, and I hadn’t the desire to become a man who fights for money and calls anyone who gains more of it than him an enemy. I was; and as you can see, a man who dreams to help others, and become a public figure not in money, but in difference. I finished university at the age of 24, back home I found my father in his bed, his eyes opened not to see me. Women cried, they were unstoppable and my mom took my hands and said; your father is gone because of money, get his money back, you’re our serene hope, his reflection. You know I went home to tell them I want to go for a master degree in some other major but circumstances changed. I continued my father’s work and here I am, a 40 year old married to a wife I met in a business meeting whom I needed to marry to emphasize financial states, having millions in my bank account, unhappy and heavy.”
“I’m not so into telling you my friend what kind of mother I had, as so I can’t understand how you have this trust for a person you just met while I’m betrayed by years of friendships.”
We draw restrictions for what we call safety. We also trust them that we forget to trust ourselves. Then we hear them, moving their lips while we bit ours. People are not always your feliciteous glory, you dont always find their best in reality rather than expected. Prepare for it, keep preparing yourself to the unknown. Enlighten your life within pure intentions that might not always be implemented by how others see them.