Journey of Feeling
From My Ashes, I Created My Tales
In a world that was loud and noisy, but with few stories…
I decided to create my own silence.
To extinguish the noise of reality… and light a small candle in the far corner of my heart.
I do not write because I have an answer.
But I write because the question has exhausted me.
And here I am…
Entering a new story, not knowing if I will return from it.
But I know…
That my hero will not be as they want.
And my heroine will not follow a predetermined path.
---
"My Words Are the Heroes"
I was never a magician, but I created miracles.
I am a writer, holding the pen not to paint a repetitive reality,
But to rearrange the chapters, and soothe the pain of stories.
I am not one to close the book on a sad ending just because the world said: "It must be this way."
I am one who writes to open a window,
And leaves a candle on the doorstep of the heart.
My hero is not as they say, and my heroine does not walk behind traditional lines.
They are from my words,
I wrote them until I felt they were breathing between the lines.
Formed from my breath, not for anything but to tell my story through them…
And I painted wings for them, made of light… and ash.
And when I am about to draw the curtain,
I do not write the word "The End,"
But lift my head and say:
"They will become Phoenix birds."
They burn, yes…
But only to rise from their ashes,
More beautiful, purer, stronger.
And in the end, the book is not closed,
But life opens it again,
With a beating heart,
Painted with the feathers of the two heroes,
From my thoughts…
From my pain…
From my dream that has never and will never resemble any other.
---
Chapter One: The Beginning of the Meeting
The Narrator (Me)
As never before, as if I never knew you… but you are my legend that I always ran away from.
And today, I surrender.
"Let me guess… Will you be like princes? Or like ordinary people?"
I whispered as I stared at my shadow stretching on the wall.
The Shadow
"You think too much, we are just going for a walk, away from the noisy life."
The Narrator
"Wait! I'll take my appointments, my clothes, my swing, my courtyard, and even you, oh shadow."
I pulled my shadow forcefully although it refused to obey.
.....
Novel: The Shadow and My Inner Voice
Introduction
In a noisy world, where words sometimes choke amidst the clamor of life, I decided to create my own world…
A world where my heroes are not just flesh and blood,
But words that pulse… silence that can be heard… and shadows that guide me.
The heroes are my words.
I was never a magician, but I created miracles.
I am a writer, holding the pen not to depict a repetitive reality,
But to rearrange the chapters, and soothe the pain of stories.
I am not one to close the book on a sad ending just because the world said, "It must be this way."
I am one who writes to open a window,
And leaves a candle on the doorstep of the heart.
...
Chapter One: The Beginning of the Encounter
The Narrator (Me)
As never before, as if I had never known you...
But you are the legend I've always run away from.
And today… I surrendered.
"Let me guess… Will you be like the princes? Or just like everyone else?"
I whispered as I stared at my shadow stretching across the wall.
The Shadow
"You think too much. We're just going on a walk, away from the noisy life."
The Narrator
"Wait! I'll take my appointments, my clothes, my swing, my courtyard—
and even you, dear shadow."
I dragged my shadow by force, even though it refused to obey.
---
Reflection:
My anger at you has grown…
And despite my efforts to change myself, my essence still holds its old contents.
Am I beautiful stories stretching from Seoul to the Great Wall of China?
Oh God, what nonsense am I saying?
But I just want to get out, to escape—
Even if it's far from life itself.
....
---
Chapter Two: The Map of Escape
Me
I placed my foot on the edge of the window…
I didn't jump. I didn't run.
I just looked down, then lifted my head toward the sky.
"Who said escaping means you have to run?
Sometimes, it's enough to just close your eyes and imagine you're not here anymore."
The Shadow
"You're not brave. You're just rejecting reality… elegantly."
Me (with a laugh)
"And who said I want to be brave?
I just want my swing,
a bit of childhood laughter,
my coffee…
and that Korean actor, of course."
---
Chapter Three: The Sunset Swing
The shadow held my hand and took me to a swing by the beach.
The sky was a soft orange, fading over the sea, and the breeze played with my hair.
The Shadow
"You forgot to bring your notebook to write a new story."
Me (smiling)
"My mind is like a recorder—
I'll keep thinking, then pour it all into my notebook later."
The Shadow
"What are you planning to write?"
My Inner Voice
"A different kind of zombie novel.
A thrilling game story.
So many ideas are chasing me…
I have to go—
the shadow, the swing!"
My Inner Voice
"I must go!
So many ideas are after me!
But I'll come back.
One more time… when I'm done."
And I left him there,
Sitting on the swing, gazing at the sea,
With a soft, unburdened look in his eyes.
...
Do We Have the Right to Dream?
I didn't want to wake up from my thoughts…
From my quiet journey with my shadow—
That shadow who never asked anything of me,
Who never judged me, never scolded me,
But simply… listened.
But reality…
Sometimes it hits you with a harsh slap,
As if a hidden voice screams in your ear:
"Wake up!!!"
"Do you really think the world will listen to your stories?
Drift with you into your imaginary world?
Do you think they'll believe in heroes
birthed from your breath?"
I opened my eyes silently.
Stood in front of the world's noise,
Quiet… and sad.
But inside,
There was something whispering gently:
"I don't care if they walk with me…
It's enough that my words soothe a tired heart,
And gently pat a wound still bleeding in someone's soul."
---
Oh reality…
You are bitter.
You don't know how many mothers have lost their children
and still search for them in their dreams.
You don't see how many hungry children cry—
And their tears shred my heart as if they were my own.
You don't feel the hearts of women,
cracked by betrayals that have no explanation.
Nor the minds of men,
weighed down by bills and life's heavy burdens.
---
I see them…
In their twenties,
Yet the wrinkles of worry mark their souls as if they were fifty.
They walk heavy…
Carrying a lifetime on their shoulders—
A life full of the unsaid,
And what will never be said.
---
I don't know how they survive.
How their eyes don't shatter in the middle of the day…
Or how their laughter doesn't collapse when someone tells them:
"Hang in there. It's not that bad."
Not that bad?
They don't need words.
They need a hug that asks nothing.
A silence that doesn't judge.
A small swing in life's corner—
So they can believe they are still children… at twenty.
---
And you don't hear people's voices
When their words turn into knives.
Each stab deeper than the last,
Stripping us of our ability to dream,
To open up,
To say:
"I'm not okay."
O Reality…
You are as bitter as oak,
Every time I try to smile at you,
You plant a thorn in my heart.
I am not running from people…
I am running from myself, from that little girl
who believed that kindness melts hatred,
that love could change people,
that loyalty would be rewarded.
But they…
They weren't human enough.
They attacked me from places I never expected…
From where I used to lean,
where I spoke, and cried.
They came not from strangers' doors,
but from between my ribs.
How many times did I hold a thief,
thinking he was just a lost angel?
How many times did I lay my head
on a stone filled with betrayal—
just to feel a little warmth?
And in the end?
They said: "You deserved it."
Because I sheltered a wolf
in the middle of my garden of flowers—
and every flower turned into a thorn.
—
....
**So Tell Me...
Don't We Have the Right to Dream?**
Don't we deserve to escape…
To a world that doesn't know how to scream?
To run wild in imagination, laugh with a shadow,
Hug a cloud, dance on a sorrowful sentence
and turn it into a song?
I'm not crazy…
I just refuse to believe that life is only made of pain.
I don't write nonsense…
I write because I feel, deep within,
That somewhere…
There's someone just like me.
Someone who struggles to rise,
Breathes underwater,
And waits—
For a gentle pat from warm words
To rescue them.
---
Flashback: A Girl Who Lost Her Shadow
I sat there…
In a silence so heavy it felt like ash.
Alone, in a corner of the room,
Watching the lump in my throat breathe inside me.
Quiet… but tearing me apart.
She betrayed me.
Not just any friend—
She was the one who filled my days with laughter and secrets.
She planted a rumor about me.
It grew, spread,
Until her family hated me.
They forbade her from even looking my way.
I searched for answers… for warmth…
But found only closed faces,
Locked doors…
And a silence even harsher than any cruel word.
Then… my mother approached.
She sat beside me,
Placed her hand gently on my shoulder,
And spoke—
With a voice that seemed to come
From a memory buried deep:
> "Shall I tell you about an old friend of mine?
Her lips looked like strawberries—
Frēzīa we used to call them.
She smiled, and I smiled with her.
We ran together, played,
Shared bread, toys, even dreams.
I wouldn't enter school without her,
And I wouldn't leave without holding her hand.
I'd give her my lunch,
And she'd swap it for hers.
I gave her my doll,
And she'd hand me her toys like they were treasures.
One day,
She scolded me gently,
Shook my shoulders and said:
'I want to be proud of you… as my friend.'
I lowered my head,
Like a child wrapped in shame, and said:
'I promise… this time for real.'
And I did it.
I excelled.
I became top of the class.
I collected awards.
I shined in every talent.
I'd run to her and say:
'Just smile for me… I'll handle the rest.'
She'd laugh,
Hold my hand,
Take me to her house.
We'd sit and eat prickly strawberries.
They were so sweet…
As if flavored with friendship and purity.
Her mother welcomed me like family…
That day, I wished time would stop."
---
My mother paused,
Then continued—
Her voice starting to crack bit by bit:
> "Summer came.
She said she was going to Aleppo
To visit her relatives.
I was sad… but I waited.
A week passed. Then a month. Two.
And suddenly—
I missed her.
I decided to visit.
I knocked on her door…
It opened slowly—
As if no one had opened it for a long time.
The air felt… faded.
Like sadness lived in it.
The strawberry trees in the garden—
They were twisted, thirsty, lifeless.
I saw her mother sitting in the yard.
I looked at her and asked:
'Auntie… where's Ferdana?'
She lifted her eyes toward me—
Tears silently streaming down her cheeks.
She said:
'Ferdana… passed away.
A car accident.'
And right then—
Something shattered inside me.
As if a wall of light collapsed all at once.
As if the world lost its sound…
Its color…
Its life.
I ran home,
Threw myself on the ground.
Cried. Screamed.
Kicked the floor with hands and feet.
I didn't want to believe.
My mother came rushing, worried:
'What's wrong, my little one?'
I screamed:
'Leave me alone, Mama…
I want to stay with my grief, with Ferdana.
I'm so miserable…
She's gone,
And I'm all alone.'"
---
My mother finished the story.
But her voice lingered in the air.
I looked at her…
My eyes heavy with tears that hadn't yet fallen.
Then I whispered:
> "Maybe… she would've grown up,
regretted it,
and we'd be friends again…"
"Everything has a solution, Mama…
Except friendship.
If it dies…
It doesn't come back, does it?"
She didn't reply.
She simply pulled me into her arms—
Wrapped me in a warmth
That felt like nothing else…
But safety.
My Beautiful Rising (The Slap I Gave Back)
Yes, reality slapped me.
With its cruelty, its silence,
With all the pain that barged in uninvited...
But I slapped it back.
I slapped it when I rose from my ashes,
When I wrote—despite everything—
When I told it:
"I will not be a broken story,
I will be the writer of my own tale."
I do not live alone...
Within me lives a mother
Who fills my heart with prayers and warmth.
A father—silent, yet my backbone
When the ground weakens.
Siblings... who laugh deeply when I laugh,
And hold me when my wings begin to break.
I try.
And I know I may fall at times,
But every time, I come back stronger.
Because I'm not alone…
And because I still believe:
Dreams do not break—
Not if the soul is honest.
---
> "I will write, I will dream, I will live,
And I will never apologize for my dreamy heart.
Because it knew love—
And knew, for its sake... how to resist."
---
Me and the Shadow… When My Past Haunted Me
Like never before,
He returned—my old self.
That face I buried under layers of silence,
The one I denied a thousand times,
And trembled before each time it resurfaced.
I no longer recognize it…
But it knows me well.
It haunts me from old photographs,
From laughter that was never real,
From memories that still bleed inside me,
Unnoticed by anyone.
Yes, I ran.
I ran from everything.
From my own broken voice,
From my name when it was spoken coldly,
From places that had witnessed my collapse.
I even ran… from my swing.
I thought I'd left it there,
Hanging in my childhood home,
Somewhere between nostalgia and echoes.
But the truth?
I simply hid it.
And today, when I wanted to leave…
I wanted to take it with me.
As if I feared changing without it.
I also wanted to take my shadow.
That shadow that never listens to me.
That clings to me when I try to run.
My shadow knows me more than I know myself,
And it always whispers:
> "You're not entirely okay…
But you're still standing."
Damn it...
Every time I try to slip away from my old self,
She clings to me—
Afraid I might lose my way.
My soul screamed:
"Don't forget who you were."
I was angry—
Angry at myself,
Angry at all this mess.
I don't want to chatter with my past.
I don't want to explain how much it hurt,
Or how I grew—
Against all odds.
I wish I could leave it all behind…
And carry only:
A new breath,
A heart that doesn't tremble,
A mind that's wiser.
Then…
I began digging through my memory,
Searching for a happy moment—
And there it was…
Coming to me
As if it had been waiting
Patiently
All along.
Flashback: The Olive Grove Memory
We were on our way to the olive orchard…
The air was cold and cloudy,
The plains stretched endlessly—small hills, a green that seemed never-ending,
As if the earth was wearing a dress sewn in heaven.
My eyes sparkled with joy,
And my heart instantly added green to its list of favorite colors.
I sat there, lost in thought,
A story idea had just popped into my head…
But my mother called out:
> "Memo, come here!"
We walked together, picking olives one by one.
On the way, the rain started to pour—
We got soaked, but we laughed…
As if the cold was just another funny story etched into memory.
We returned home,
And in our tiny front yard,
We jumped into the pool—
After all, if you're already wet, what's water to fear?
We washed the red soil off our bodies,
Then suddenly, my little brother screamed:
> "Frog! Frog!"
We turned—
Tiny frogs were hopping out of the water.
And instead of running away,
We stayed and watched… and laughed…
Creating a moment that will never die.
That image is carved into my heart.
Every time I remember it…
A smile escapes me—without even knowing it.
---
The Shadow Wakes Me
> My shadow asked in his usual soft tone:
"Do you really think they care?"
> I looked at him—this time, with eyes ablaze.
I didn't answer with words.
I just let everything inside me collapse all at once…
As if the words had been waiting for the smallest crack to flood through.
Have you ever just… pulled away suddenly?
From the people you once hovered around—
Giving them your time, your attention, your warmth?
You'd be surprised how many names vanish quietly…
Without even asking:
> "Why did you disappear?"
"Are you okay?"
No one asks.
No one even tries to understand why you pulled back.
They just wait…
Watching their phones indifferently—
As if you should always be the first to text,
The one to start the conversation… every time.
Funny, isn't it?
When you care too much, they get tired of your concern.
But when you finally walk away,
They blame you:
> "Why don't you call us?"
"Why did you stop talking to us?"
Screw that…
Where were you,
When I chased after your love,
Panting for a sliver of attention?
Where were you,
When I endured your weird behaviors,
Your tilted stares,
Your cryptic words?
I held on—because I needed you.
But I barely survived.
I paused for a moment,
Then continued…
My voice softer, less angry, more certain:
> I survived you.
Now, I live in a world I created on my own.
A small world—
But peaceful.
Bound by my own joy… and the safety of my family.
I'm done chasing mirages.
I'm done running after people
Who reflect nothing but my shattered shadow.
So listen closely…
If you're not who I need,
I will not be who you expect.
Whoever gives me a kind word,
I give them a dictionary of my melodies.
Whoever touches my heart gently,
I open up oceans of my emotions.
But whoever tries to diminish my worth,
Make me doubt myself,
Make me feel foolish—
Will not even be…
A flicker in my gaze.
I don't run anymore.
I now stand—firm.
And I am enough.
> My shadow turned his face away for a moment,
Then said—calmly, like the sea breeze at dawn:
"Only now… you're starting to understand."
....
The Field Girl… and the Silence of the City
When will people finally understand
That there's a vast difference
Between someone raised in the villages,
And someone who grew up in the chaos of the city?
A silent scream lives in my heart,
Shakes my soul,
Repeats every time I try to be "what they expect."
The journey to the city wasn't just a change in location—
It was a shock.
My spontaneity, once the crown of my childhood,
Now seemed foolish in their eyes.
I heard the criticism creep in,
Polite, but piercing:
> "Act feminine.
Be quiet.
Don't laugh so much.
Don't run.
No, no, no…"
As if I were a machine needing reprogramming
To fit the city's atmosphere.
But did they…
Understand?
Feel?
Ever sense the real difference?
Between a girl who grew up playing in open fields,
And another raised among Barbie dolls, kitchen sets, and soda cans?
Have they ever lived the life of someone
Who wakes up at dawn to help her mother?
Who runs from olive-picking season
To the harvest of wheat and lentils?
Have they ever felt the soil with their own hands?
Or known how harsh the sun feels on small shoulders?
While someone else waits for her father's paycheck to buy what she wants?
Is it shameful to go to the pasture with my grandma and brother?
Does my femininity melt there?
Do I lose my beauty
Because I love dawn and pure light,
Because I daydream in the fields,
And write my stories in notebooks no one reads but me?
I sit with the city girls…
Listening to them talk about brands I've never heard of,
About love and passion and their polished softness,
While I only know how to talk about my animals,
My mother, my siblings,
About a kind of silent struggle
That has built the very core of me.
I choose silence.
Because I seem strange to them…
Too boyish, they say.
Crazy. Loud.
While they are like Disney princesses—
Elegant. Soft. Calculated in every breath.
Their words sting,
But I don't hate myself.
I love myself even more.
I love Maryam, who grew up in the countryside,
Who fell in the mud and laughed,
Who carried teacups and laughed as they broke,
Who didn't have a childhood made of paper,
But lived an unforgettable adventure.
I love me, just as I am.
I am a daughter of the earth,
A daughter of simple people…
And I'm not ashamed of that.
Because I love myself as I am,
There's no need to explain to them who I am.
I am a daughter of the land.
Not incomplete.....
Just not raised in a place
That knows how to interpret the fullness in me.
I come from soil that taught me pride…
Without saying a word.
And if they think I don't belong....
So be it.
At least… I belong to