I am merely a forest yet to be drawn, a charcoal sketch where colors have not yet blossomed.
My mind wanders like mist drifting between mountains, aimless, enchanted by a spell that has lost its charm.
I dwell in silence like a solitary tree in winter, and I am a flame slowly fading, like the moon sinking into the horizon, leaving behind the dark veil of night.
I stand at a crossroads where the river of reason meets the whirlwind of the heart.
The poison runs like corrupted sap through the roots of my soul — to succumb, to give up, or to be reborn like the phoenix from the ashes?
Pain is like the desert’s dry wind — invisible yet sharp.
Disillusion is a storm that gives no warning, burning like frost out of season.
Humanity, like a forest that forgot how to grow, complicates the simple and fears the unknown as if it were a bottomless abyss.
My soul is an arid desert, where desire is a mirage and willpower evaporates beneath the scorching sun of reality.
Emotions are like wild rivers; they do not follow calendars, they simply run, dragging us through trails never walked.
Sadness is an eclipse; hope, a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
Life’s crossroads are like storms: they either drown us or purify us.
In chaos, we live between tectonic plates of parallelism and pragmatism, trying to maintain balance.
The devil walks in our footsteps, and even with our hands raised to the sky, the sun burns us as though we touched fire itself.
We remain submerged in an ocean without air, waiting for the tide of freedom — or we simply stop swimming.
We disconnect from the world and become rocks, motionless, dull — for not everyone receives the dew of emotions that sweeten existence.
Sometimes we must accept the forest as it is and rest in its shade, far from the thorns of illusions and the shards of broken hearts.
Today, the crossroads is a thick fog.
Tomorrow? Who knows…
Today, tears of blood water the earth; tomorrow, invisible yet still there, hidden from eyes that do not know how to see.
We ask the stars for their light, but there is always a greater shadow watching us in silence.
To be happy for a day is like picking a rare flower — it can perfume a soul for a thousand years.
But unhappiness, like slow erosion, turns us into stone, and with time, the wind carries us back to the earth.
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