Death Sequence – Chapter One (Free Literary Translation)
The drums of weeping quickened, beating with violence. A starving infant gasped for breath, lunging at his mother's breast like a ravenous lion,
exhausted from the hunt yet triumphant in finding his prey. He devoured it with fierce desire. To him, life was nothing but the breast—his sole source of warmth and tenderness. He saw only drops of water to quench his thirst, or
the gentle touch of fingers caressing his fragile flesh.
This was life, in its entirety, through his eyes. The old woman watched him, smiling faintly from her chair. She followed his laughter, his restless feet, his
playful grasp, as if they were waves of a calm sea breaking softly upon the shore. Her mind drifted far away, whispering to herself:
Death was never a sudden halt at the finish line. It was an eternal dance that began with our very first cry. From the moment our feet touched the earth, we have been walking upon the line of ending itself—resisting it, celebrating life, while it practiced its silent art upon us, stroke by stroke.
And she remembered: once, long ago, she too had been that infant. She had seen as he saw, felt as he felt. Life had been nothing but that breast, that warmth, that innocence. But now, she gasped as though her breath had stopped, asking herself: Where did that child go? Was she not me?
"No," she sighed, her lips trembling with astonishment and sorrow. "She is no longer me. That infant has died within me. With her vanished every touch, every gaze, every untainted joy. She dissolved like a feather torn apart by a storm. I am no longer her. She was buried deep inside me, in a grave carved into my soul. Every new birth is, inevitably, the death of a former self."
The old woman saw her past selves rise before her like ghosts—shadows of what once was, whispering, calling, demanding to be heard. And thus began the dialogue:
Stage One: The Infant and the Child (The Death of Pure Instinct)
Scene: A hushed darkness. A faint whisper emerges from the body of a child taking his first steps.
TheInfant(thedeadself): "Ah… you who have just stepped out of my silence, how dared you strip away my veil? I was pure nothingness—unprogrammed, untainted by names. I was a ffoating thought without chains. Why do you seek definition?"
TheChild(thenewbornself): "You are silence I cannot comprehend! I am light, color, noise! I have begun to taste food beyond the milk of stillness. I hear stories of a being watching us from above. You, nothingness, never knew the taste of words nor the magic of play."
TheInfant: "You walk upon the finish line they drew for you. Those words you boast of are your first shackles. Those tales of a 'god' are your first illusions. I was born atheist by instinct, untouched by rituals, unburdened by the endless race of faith. No one forced me to chase a hidden deity who disguises himself in a thousand religions, claiming to be one. I knew only innocence, untouched by fear or reward. I lived like a white cotton cloud, needing nothing but warmth and breath."
The Child (smiling with a mix of innocence and cunning): "Now, and only now, the infant has vanished. You buried her within yourself, carved her grave with your own will."
TheInfant(resisting): "No! I did not bury her. I searched for her one morning, crying, wandering the house, the street, calling her name. But she did not answer. She melted like ice beneath a burning sun. I ran to the mirror, and there I found only a child staring back. The infant was gone, a phantom whispering from afar: 'The time has passed. The hour is over.'"
TheChild(mocking,triumphant): "Indeed, the hour is over. I am your reality now. I am the child, the living truth. You cannot escape me. You will inherit myths, replace instinct with dogma. You will be programmed, like all the others."
And so the infant was silenced. The child lived, laughed, played, and learned. Yet the white cotton within her began to stain, dimming its light. Still, a faint glow remained—enough to illuminate her games, her joy, her fascination with every detail of life.
The Fracture
We live in an age that glorifies outward perfection and mocks the trace of wounds. But I say otherwise: loss is the greatest giver, for it plants within us a thirst that never dries. Salvation does not lie in sealing the cracks, but in igniting light through them.
So thought the wise man as he walked with heavy steps, carrying the two jars upon his shoulders. Day after day, he bore them—one resting on the right, the other on the left. And as he walked, he listened intently to the dialogue that rose between them.
The Symbolic Dialogue: The Two Jars
TheWholeJar(witharrogance): "You fractured one, symbol of imperfection in a world that worships completion! I am the vessel society desires: calm, obedient, filled, causing no chaos. You, instead, leak with every step, proof of failure that produces nothing."
TheCrackedJar(withsorrowyetdefiance): "You are whole only on the outside. You are the image of a woman who surrendered to obedience, birthing generations into lives they never chose. I see marriage as a heavy chain, a plague I cannot endure. Yes, I am cracked—but my fracture is the
price of rebellion against a society that sees women as vessels of submission, not sources of existence."
TheWholeJar: "You are unfit, excluded, incapable of holding the water of marriage or the bond of partnership. You walk broken steps, losing yourself with every move. No wonder they call you incomplete."
TheCrackedJar(withproudawareness): "Your perfection is lifeless. You never struggled, never carved your own path. My fracture is not weakness—it is the will that forced me to grow. Every pain, every battle for freedom, every scar of divorce is my strength. My crack is my declaration of sovereignty."
Yet within, the cracked jar sometimes felt fragile, overwhelmed by despair. Society saw her as nothing more than a vessel to be filled and emptied by men. But deep inside, a hidden voice whispered: Your fracture is your secret power. It will bloom into something eternal.
The Wise Man's Revelation
One day, she asked the wise man: "Whydoyoucarrymeeveryday,knowingI hold no water?Why not discardme for the whole jar that fulfillsitspurpose?"
The wise man smiled, touched her fracture with tender fingers, and replied: "I donotseeyourcrackasweakness.Iseebeyondit.Withoutyourfracture, therewouldbenogarden,noblossoms.Youarethesourceofcreativity,the springthatwatersbarrensoil.Thewholejarproducesnothingbutemptiness. Butyou—yourfracturehasbirthedaparadise."
He led her to a lush garden, vibrant with colors, poems, and stories. The
cracked jar wept with joy, realizing that her brokenness had been the fountain of beauty.
Philosophical Conclusion: The Declaration of the One
The cracked jar spoke with pride: "NowIunderstand.Myfractureisnota
ffaw—it is my identity. I am the One, indivisible, refusing to be split or shared. Like Dostoevsky, I love humanity in its essence, but I cannot bear the chains of partnership. My fracture has given me strength, individuality, and creativity.
Those who appear whole are dead within, barren of light. I, through my crack, water the world with art and meaning."
And so she declared: "I am the true One in the equation of existence. My fracture is my crown, my fortress, my eternal mark."
The Spiral Deception
She rushed into her room like a commander resolved upon a daring mission. Grabbing her wallet, she sat on the couch and pulled out a banknote—neither vast wealth nor trivial change, but enough to buy her antidepressants or pay
the dentist who tended to her decaying teeth. The paper trembled in her hand, a silent reel of memories and necessities flashing before her eyes.
She clenched the note until it wrinkled like the face of a centenarian, then tore it apart in fury, scattering its corpse across the floor. The scent of ink and currency filled the air, choking her as she whispered: Illusion.Illusion.Nothing but illusion.
The Spiral of Money: The Game of Hands
"You are a dazzling trick," she told the shredded paper. "You slip from hand to hand, promising each palm the lantern of Aladdin, the shield of power. Yet you give nothing but deception. You are a thief's whisper, a false promise, a spiral that spins endlessly, returning always to the same hands, the same lies."
The fragments smirked back, venomous and proud: "But you need me. Without me you cannot eat, drink, heal, or clothe yourself. Without me you will perish. You may despise me, but you will always submit."
Her gaze burned with hatred: "That is why I loathe you. You are the whip upon my back, the iron shackle upon my wrists. You robbed me of freedom, forced me into your spiral. But today, I rebel. Today, I tear you apart."
The Silent Dialogue: Money and Nothingness
Money is not treasure—it is a spiral of exhaustion. The worker receives his wage, passes it to the merchant, who pays his debts, who returns it to the bank, which redistributes it again. A circle without creation, a carousel of slavery disguised as progress.
"Evenfreedom," the fragments hissed, "canbebought.Icanenslaveit,corrupt it,reduceittodust."
She laughed bitterly: "Freedom is beyond your reach. You are a matchstick before a skyscraper, a worm beneath an elephant's foot. Freedom is the star that cannot be purchased, the eternal ffame untouched by your fraud."
The Climax: Sacred Renunciation
"Yes," she declared, "I live in a world that worships you, but I choose
renunciation. Tolstoy abandoned wealth while owning everything; I abandon you while owning nothing. My madness in tearing you apart is my sacred art, my liberation. You cannot buy life, nor sleep, nor peace. You are nothing but paper, and I have reduced you to dust."
The fragments wailed: "Fool!Youcouldhavegainedsomuch.Nowyouhave nothing."
But she stood tall, victorious: "Exactly. Nothing—that is your true worth. You are trash, unworthy even of recycling. Freedom is eternal; you are fragile, torn by the slightest stain. You are illusion, while freedom is the star that endures."
Conclusion: The Wealth of Renunciation
"The happiest are those with nothing to lose," she whispered. "I live now in the richness of renunciation, not possessions. I see sorrow behind the hollow smiles of billionaires. You cannot grant them joy. You are a fraud, a spiral of slavery. I choose to be poor and rich at once—poor in your game, rich in my freedom."
And with that, she proclaimed: "Money is nothing but a narcissistic illusion, worshipped by fools. I have torn you apart, and in doing so, I have freed myself."
The Empty Half
Inside a vast glass space, divided into two realms— one half radiant, brimming with light and promise, the other barren, stripped like a desert scoured by storms, transparent in its emptiness.
The Dialectic of the Glass
Two halves stand face to face within a transparent cup. The full half gleams with naïve hope, while the empty half remains calm, silent, and clear.
TheFullHalf(withloud,shallowconfidence): "Look at me, O emptiness! I am certainty, the tangible matter that proves life holds goodness. Without me, the world would be nothing! I am ambition, I am hope. You, empty half, are nothing but failure, pessimism, and despair. Why does no one dive into you?"
TheEmptyHalf(withquietphilosophicaldepth):"Areyousosureofyour place?Haveyouneverwonderedwhyyourpromisesbetraysomany?Whythe dreamersyouintoxicatedwithyourrosyillusionsendedbyleapingfrom
balconies or swallowing poison? You deceived them, drove them against walls of despair. I, unlike you, do not promise and then betray. I am honesty from the beginning. I am the void that never lies."
The Debate of Indifference and Suffering
TheFullHalf:"Youpreachlazinessandgloom!Youhideyourweakness
behind words. I am brilliance, color, springtime. You are snakes and scorpions in a barren desert. I inspire joy, while you inspire nothing."
TheEmptyHalf(withthewisdomofateacher): "You are the poison wrapped in honey. You dazzle with bright garments, but beneath them lies a pit. You lure the naïve with promises, then abandon them to ruin. I, on the other hand, reveal the scorpions from the start. I show the desert as it is, so they may prepare, arm themselves, and transform it into a garden. My honesty is not despair—it is vigilance, a call to work, to resist illusion. I am warning, not
sedation."
The Philosophical Defense of Nothingness
TheEmptyHalf: "I embody Cioran's principle: the only way to possess everything is to renounce everything. I am the point of zero, the clarity that cannot be deceived. I do not chase goals—they come to me. My emptiness is strength, not weakness."
TheFullHalf(withfalteringvoice):"ButIhidepainbeneathhope,solifemay continue.Idonotmeantodeceive—Ionlybeautifysuffering."
TheEmptyHalf: "And I strip suffering bare. I show pain as the weapon of awakening, the source of art and truth. You are the child who kills with false promises. I am the teacher who turns wounds into bridges, sorrow into
creativity, emptiness into unique completion."
The Final Cry
TheEmptyHalf: "I call for conscious choice. Come to me, to the emptiness that will not betray you. Learn that failure and pain can be the seed of strength, that imperfection can be the beginning of true wholeness. I am the empty
half—but I am the most real, the most intelligent, the victorious. For I never chased illusions."
Secrets of the Night
In a corner of the city, where wet pavements meet the dim glow of streetlights, there was a woman named Layla. Strong, rebellious, she carried within her a love for art, literature, and music, and a deep intimacy with the night and its secrets.
Layla (gazing at the star-strewn sky): "Onight,youaremyonlyfriend.InyouI findshelterfromthestormsoftheworld.Nooneunderstandsmeasyoudo."
TheNight (whispering gently): "Whydoyourejectlove,Layla?Whydoyouturn away from men and choose solitude?"
Layla (smiling with sorrow): "I have tried love, but found it laced with pain. Every story was a harsh lesson, every man carried a secret that wounded me. I refuse to be a victim again."
TheNight: "But love is not always pain. It can be refuge, it can be inspiration. Do you not see how the stars dance in my sky?"
Layla (contemplating the stars): "Isee,butIprefertodancealone.Inmy danceIfindfreedom.InmywordsIfindmyvoice.Idonotneedamanto
complete me—I am whole as I am. My solitude fills me, it does not diminish me. It opens worlds, not just one. I find life and completion in my own
company, while emptiness lies only among those masked in false humanity."
She turned to the night as if to confess: "I find myself only in your embrace, O night. In your silence I see truth. In your darkness I find clarity. You whisper to me of the world's deceit, of the cruelty of men, of the animals abandoned in the streets. You record it all in your memory, and reveal it to me when the day is gone. You are my refuge, my gentle hand upon my shoulder, my companion against the noise of humanity."
TheNight (with concern): "But solitude is heavy, Layla. In the isolation of artists lies danger—you may lose yourself in the shadows of your thoughts."
Layla: "Do not fear for me, tender night. I know how to savor you, how to live within your silence. I am of your people—the ones who belong to the night. I wander through your hours, listening to your symphonies, smiling,
remembering, sometimes aching. With you I see a world apart, a world of transparency and music, not the harshness of day. I wish your hours would never end, that the sun would never rise."
TheNight (moved by her music): "You reffect a rare beauty, but remember—in every darkness there is light. Tell me, do you fear opening your heart to a man again?"
Layla (with confidence and defiance): "Ifearnothing.ButIhavechosentolive inmyownworld.Iwillnotbeboundbytheemotionsofothers.Iwanttobe
free, to live my moments as I wish. This choice is mine, and it makes me happy."
The Night (admiring her): "Your freedom is your strength. Yet remember, life is not only solitude. One day you may long for a companion to share these secrets."
Layla (smiling softly, her lips melting like sugar): "Perhaps.Butuntilthatday,I willdancewithyou,Onight.Iwillwriteyoumysecrets,singyoumydreams. Youaremyrefuge,myfriend.WithyouIamfree,withyouIamwhole."
And in that moment, the night embraced Layla with its warm silence, whispering that her path was filled with triumphs yet to come, that she was different from all others, that she was his brightest star—immortal in every secret she entrusted to him.
Defiance
Scene One: The Sermon
Sheikh Hassan stood upon the pulpit, his voice thundering beneath the golden dome, his eyes blazing fire. "Theeyecommitsadultery,anditsadulteryisthe gaze!" he cried, quoting a hadith. "Womanisatemptation,herhairafirethat burnsfaith.RemembertheProphet'swords:'Ihavenotleftbehindmeanytrial more harmful to men than women!'"
The congregation nodded, murmuring "Amen." But in the back rows sat Yara, cloaked in black, her golden hair slipping free like a waterfall over her
shoulders. She wore the veil only to enter the mosque, not out of faith. Her
blue dress brushed her knees, her pale legs glowing beneath the dark fabric. The women around her glared with venom, forcing her to cover herself.
Yara was no believer. To her, religion was myth, superstition that shackled progress. She was a scientist, a researcher, convinced of reason and
evidence. Yet she kept silent—this society would not forgive her doubts. She had come only to see him, her former colleague, perhaps to challenge him, perhaps to mock his fiery certainty.
Their eyes met as the sermon ended. For a moment, Hassan felt the earth quake beneath him. His heart trembled, his throat tightened. He remembered his own words: "Letwomenwearloosegarments,letthembemodest,for
modestyispartoffaith…" Yet he could not look away.
Inside, he denied: "No…Idonotlove.Loveisdesire,anddesireishellfire." But her laughter haunted him, her voice rang like golden anklets, cutting through his defenses. He fled from her like a frightened mouse, while she smiled knowingly. She knew he was hers, though he hid behind the mask of piety.
Scene Two: The Dream
That night, Hassan lay restless upon his white pillow. In his dream, he asked:
"Do I love you?"
The question circled him like smoke. His lips dried, his voice faltered. He saw her at her old desk, laughing, her eyes shining like twin stars. He reached out, touched a strand of her golden hair.
And in the dream, his voice became poetry: "If you drown in the river, beloved, I will drown with you. If you burn in love, beloved, I will burn with you."
He whispered: "If a million love you, I am among them. If only one loves you, it is I. And if none love you, then I am dead."
Yet even in the dream, fear returned. "You are sin wrapped in angel's cloth. Youaremydownfall.Imustffee."
Scene Three: The Pillow
Awake, he pressed his face into the pillow. It spoke to him in a woman's voice: "Whatisthissweat,Hassan?Fromyourfierysermon—orfromyourburning dream?"
"Silence," he muttered. "You are cloth, nothing more. I am a man of God. I do not love."
The pillow laughed softly: "I am cloth soaked with your tears. I hear your heart racing when you whisper her name. You deny, but I know."
It quoted Nizar Qabbani: "Say to the one who pretends piety, who fills the world with cries against love: Come, let us share the great lie. You love women, as I love them."
Hassan trembled. "Iftheyknew,theywouldstonemewithwordsbefore stones."
Scene Four: Morning
At dawn, he rose, prayed, and whispered in his prostration: "Lord…Iknowthis loveisforbidden.ButYourknowledgeofmeisgreaterthanmydenial.Forgive me—orpunishme.Onlydonotleavemyhearttornintwo."
He dressed in white, placed his turban, and looked in the mirror. He saw a man carrying a secret no one else knew. A secret named Yara.
He walked to the mosque, greeted with respect: "Peacebeuponyou,our Sheikh.""Anduponyoupeace," he replied.
But he knew: part of him was no longer theirs. Part of him belonged to the woman who defied his faith, who taught him—against his will—the harshest lesson of all: that even the most rigid heart can melt when faced with truth.
Oil and Water
Inside a tall crystal glass, oil and water stand apart. Oil above—golden, dense, gleaming like a contemplative mind. Water below—clear, simple, moving
quietly like a faithful heart.
Water (softly, reaching upward): "Whydoyourefusetomixwithme?Arewe nottogetherinthisglass?Arewenotpartnersinlife?"
Oil (calm, assured): "Indeed, we share the same vessel. But we do not blend. That is the first truth you must understand."
The Clash of Logic and Faith
Water: "But I am the essence of life! Did they not say: 'We made from water every living thing'?"
Oil (mocking, confident): "And here lies your first fallacy—generalization. Not all creatures depend on water. Some thrive on moisture alone. Science says: 'Most living beings,' not all. You exaggerate to inffate your importance."
Water: "Yet I bring comfort. To the thirsty, I am refuge. To the believer, I am purity."
Oil: "And I bring light. I fuel the lamps of knowledge, dispelling darkness. You prefer people to remain in the shadows of faith, blind to the gaps in your stories."
Myth Under the Microscope
Water: "But I carry the tales of prophets, the miracles of gods, the promises of paradise!"
Oil: "Borrowed myths, retold and reshaped. The ffood? Written in Gilgamesh a thousand years before the Torah. Adam from clay? An Egyptian myth. Seven heavens? A Babylonian vision. You are not origin—you are repetition,
distortion."
The Battle of Reason
Water: "Yet many scholars unite us—science and faith together!"
Oil (with disdain): "That is the greatest danger. When quantity drowns quality, beware. Those you praise are not scientists but patchworkers, mixing oil and water by force. They twist the Big Bang into 'Be, and it is,' ignoring that physics speaks of processes, not gods. They build straw men, then strike them down."
Water: "But faith gives peace, solace to the weary soul."
Oil: "And war to the world. How many battles were fought in your name? How much blood spilled under your banners? Science builds hospitals; faith blesses armies."
The Final Separation
The glass remains divided. Oil above, water below. From afar, one might think it holds a single liquid. But the line is clear—the golden crown of oil never touches the transparent body of water.
Oil: "We may share the same vessel, but we will never blend. Truth refuses to kneel before myth. Science will not serve faith."
Water (quietly): "Thenweremainforeverapart?"
Oil: "Yes. For mixing is impossible. One day, perhaps, water will evaporate entirely, leaving only oil—pure, unbroken. That day, humanity will no longer need gods, only itself."
Sunlight enters through the window, scattering rainbows across the oil's surface. A beauty purely physical, needing no divine explanation.
Conclusion
The wise observer sees: oil above, water below. Attempts to unite them are like trying to hold fire and ice in the same hand. Science does not need
religion; religion always clings to science to justify itself. And humanity divides into two kinds: those who see the line and accept it, and those who close their eyes, imagining union where none can ever exist.
The Righteous
Scene: A Day of Reckoning
The sky was not golden as believers had imagined, but gray—like the mind of a philosopher. No throne, no rivers of wine. Only a vast hall, and a god seated upon a simple chair, reading from a transparent tablet.
Believers of every faith stood in rows: Muslims in white robes, Christians with their crosses, Jews with their books. In a separate corner stood the atheists: scientists in lab coats, philosophers with weary eyes, ordinary people with calm faces.
The Shock
God (voice echoing like in a cavern): "Ihidmyselfdeliberately."
Believers (in one voice, confident): "It was a test of faith! We believed without proof, with hearts full of your light. We never needed evidence—we found you in prayer, in fasting, in devotion. Faith alone was our sun, brighter than reason."
God (with disdain): "No. You never chose me. You never loved me. You prayed out of fear, you worshiped out of greed. You sought paradise, you feared hell. You were slaves to reward and punishment, not seekers of truth."
The believers gasped, stunned. "Butyoutoldusfaithwassurrender!You promisedparadiseforobedience,andthreatenedhellfordoubt!"
God: "I wanted honesty, not blind submission. I hid myself to see who would search for me—not who would tremble for fear of fire or lust for gardens of pleasure. You never sought me. You sought yourselves."
The Contrast
God turned toward the atheists with respect. "Look at them. They did not fear my fire, nor crave my paradise. They searched for truth, even at the cost of eternal ffames. They gave themselves to knowledge, to science, to the betterment of humanity. They did not inherit faith blindly—they questioned, they refused, they thought."
A philosopher spoke: "I would reject any god who allows evil without justice. I do not seek heaven, I seek truth."
A scientist added: "I studied the stars for forty years. I found no proof of you, so I refused to believe without evidence. Yet I respected the mystery."
The Ultimate Question
God (to the believers): "Tellme—whydidyouworshipme?"
Abeliever: "Because you deserve worship… and because of paradise."
God: "Stop at 'paradise.' Would you worship me if there were no paradise?"
Silence.
Anun:"Becauseyouarelove."
God: "And if love led you to hell instead of heaven—would you still love me?"
Silence again.
The Paradox
God pointed to a child who had died young, an atheist by innocence. "He asked his mother: 'Who made the universe?' She said: 'God.' He asked: 'How do we know?' She had no answer. He refused to believe without understanding. He died searching, but never surrendered to ignorance."
Conclusion: Who Are the True Servants?
God: "Believers worshiped me out of fear and greed. Their devotion was a transaction: 'I serve you, you give me paradise.' But the atheists… they refused a narcissistic god, they rejected blind obedience, they sought truth even in fire. They were not slaves. They were seekers. And seekers are the righteous."
Renunciation
Scene: The Empty Room
Layane sits in a white room, bare except for:
a wooden chair a window opening onto a gray sky a book by Cioran, open at the line: "Desirenothing,andyouwillhave "
Layane (staring into the void): "HowcanInotdesire?Desireiswhatmakesme breathe!"
Despair (appearing as a shadow on the wall): "No,desireiswhatsuffocates you.Everythingyouchaseslipsaway.Everythingyouwantescapes."
Dialogue One: The Taoist Lesson
Indifference: "Do not try in order to succeed. Plant the seed, let it ripen. Whether it happens or not, you keep walking your path. The Taoists say: 'Let life come to you.' Do you know why?"
Layane: "But they say: 'Ask, and you shall receive!'"
Indifference (laughing softly): "Thatisaliesoldtooptimists.Thetruthis:'Stop asking,andwhatyouneedappears.'Thereisadifference."
Memories, or Disappointments That Purified
First:Love. She loved a man she thought was her destiny. She wrote, she waited. He left. Despair:"Whathappenedwhenyousurrendered?"Layane: "Iwrotemymostbeautifultexts.IdiscoveredtheloveIsoughtwasinsideme."
Second: Social Success. She chased status, approval, recognition. She lost everything. Indifference: "And what did you find?" Layane: "I found myself. My losses carved a tunnel into my depths, where I finally met the self I had lost. My failures purified me with their tears, and gave me freedom."
Dialogue Two: Cioran the Teacher
Indifference: "Cioran said: 'Suffering is beautiful.' Do you know why?"
Layane:"Becauseitisreal?"
Indifference: "Because it strips away masks. Optimists wear the mask of eternal joy. The despairing are naked. And when you are naked, you see
yourself for the first time."
Transformation: From Striving to Revelation
Layane (closing the book, breathing deeply): "Ifeelsomethingchanging."
Indifference: *"Because you are renouncing. Renouncing:
the expectation of happiness the demand for love the chase for recognition the hunger for "*
Layane:"Andwhatremains?"
Indifference: "You. Only you. And then the world begins to come to you."
The Miracle: When Emptiness Reveals
Suddenly, things begin to appear:
a novel idea rising in her mind inner peace flowing like a quiet river clarity, seeing life for the first time
Layane: "What is this?" Indifference: "This is revelation. When you renounce everything… everything appears. Not as you want, but as it is."
Bukowski's Wisdom
Indifference: "Remember Bukowski? 'Don't try. Sometimes not trying is everything.'"
Layane: "But he was a drunk, a miserable man!"
Indifference: "And free. Free because he renounced. He gave up trying to be 'happy,' 'successful,' 'loved.' And he became… Bukowski."
Discovery: In Despair, Maturity
Layane (opening her notebook, writing): "IwritenownotbecauseIwanttobe awriter,butbecausethewordscome.Idonotchasethem.Theycome."
The words flow:
deep, because they prove nothing honest, because they fear nothing free, because they expect nothing
Indifference: "Do you see? True creativity comes from renunciation, not pursuit. From fullness in emptiness, not the chase to fill."
Final Scene: The Perfection of Imperfection
Layane closes the notebook. She looks out the window. The gray sky is beautiful. The sun sets. The shadow fades. But the beautiful suffering—the energy of renunciation—remains.
Layane (with pride and serenity): "I am well now. I have chosen myself. And when you choose yourself, everything changes. I no longer care for others' words, nor seek their approval. I give my chances to myself. I am strong,
moving forward, balanced. My strength lies in no longer waiting for anyone to love me. I am my own crutch. I no longer compare my life to others. I live in harmony with my own music, my own voice, my own identity. I have accepted myself, and life has accepted me. Choose yourself, and life chooses you."
The Café
(About souls that refuse to be poured into molds)
Scene: A café in an old neighborhood
"Nur" sits in the café TheLostTime. Each table represents a type of humanity:
Table1:TheSimilarOnes Men in identical Women with
packaged smiles. Conversations like photocopies: "Theweather… work… prices…"
Table2:TheObedient They laugh when laughter is "required." They grieve when grief is "expected." They die every time a new day is Table3:TheConformists Afraid of Comfortable in sameness. Believing peace is silence.
Nur'sDiscovery:Iamtheerrorintheequation
"I feel like a marginal note in a tightly bound book."
She orders her coffee differently: No sugar. No cardamom. Just a single drop of honey.
Waiter (staring): "No oneasksfor it this way!"Nur:"That'swhyI askforit."
Dialogue with the Different Self
Self: "Why do you feel estranged?" Nur: "Because I hear melodies while
everyone else hears words. I see distances while they count things. I feel the weight of souls while they weigh bodies."
Vision: Beneath the Surface of Conformity
She begins to see what others do not:
Thehandsomeman: Laughs, but his eyes Tells jokes, but his voice carries scars. Pretends confidence, but his hands tremble. Thebeautifulwoman: Flatters, but her heart is Boasts, but her spirit begs. Shows strength, but her bones are glass.
Nur: "The conformists are not truly alike… They are different in identical ways. Like stars that all shine, but each dies in its own manner."
Paradox: In Difference, Union
She realizes the only truly different ones are the conformists who believe they are the same. For every human is a universe entire, yet they reduce
themselves to copies. She, however… Different in her solitude. United in her difference.
Philosophical Dialogue with Coffee
Coffee (its steam forming words): "You are like the drop of honey in me. You do not belong, yet you complete. You do not resemble, yet you harmonize. You are the exception that proves the rule. And the rule reveals the beauty of the exception."
Nur: "So… being different is not a ffaw?" Coffee: "It is the only virtue in a world that worships sameness. Sameness is a delayed death. Difference is a stubborn life. And I… prefer life, even if stubborn."
Climax: Birth of the Different One
Everyone looks at her. They hear her silence, louder than their noise. They see her calm, deeper than their movement. They feel her difference, more real than their sameness.
ManfromtheSimilarTable:"You…aredifferent."Nur (smiling): "Thankyou." Man:"No,Imean…unsettling.Youmakemewonder:doItrulywantwhatI want?OrdoIwantwhattheywantmetowant?"
Final Scene: Exit in Peaceful Difference
Nur leaves the café. Behind her, a whisper:
Newcustomer:"Iwantcoffeelikethegirlwhowashere."Waiter:"Andhow wasitprepared?"Waiter,astonished:"…Shemadeherdifferenceseemthe mostnaturalthingintheworld."
Now, walking the streets, Nur sees: Every face hides a story beneath the mask of daily life. Similar faces, but she knows— Every similarity is a betrayal of the story.
Signature:Nur–outsidethetextsincebirth.
The Offering
Scene: A Tremendous Silence
She advances with steady, confident steps toward the colossal statue before her— a monument shaped like an open book, crowned with a pen poised to write. Before the gathered crowd, in the weight of silence heavy with awe, she sits willingly, smiling, and raises her hands toward it. She bows her head in reverence and whispers:
"I am yours. I give you myself. I give you my dreams, my disappointments, my betrayals, my sorrows. I give you every tear, every wound, every grief, so long
as they serve you and enrich your ffame of creation. Here is my chest, proud of its scars, pierced for you alone. Every pain, every smile drowned in tears— they are yours, for your service."
Dialogue: The Voluntary Sacrifice
TheStatueoftheBook (voice like rustling ancient pages): "Youhavereturned atlast.Imissedthewordsyouinscribedwithinme.Ienviedthejobthatkept
you from me, that silenced the dew bleeding from your pen, the dew that blossoms into my fruit."
She: "I never left you. You were always in my blood, in my thoughts. My absence was for you. I was busy freeing myself… for you."
She looks at her hands, stained not with ink but with blood. "Thisistheblood ofmyliberation.Thebloodofbreakingchains—ajobthatstrangledme,a
marriage that tried to bury me. Every thorn I walked upon led me here. I bring my entrails, my pain, my freedom, and lay them on your altar."
Memories: The Slaughter of the Self
She recalls:
A husband who mocked her words, burned her manuscript, and she left him with divorce as her crown of A job that stabbed her with betrayal, yet she turned those wounds into The last jewel she sold, to buy paper, ink, and time— astonishing the
jeweler who asked: "Why?" She answered: "Topurchasemyfreedom."
Deep Dialogue: Why Do You Sacrifice?
Statue: "Why do you do this? Humans seek safety, wealth, love. You may lose all of it for me."
She: "If it makes you shine, if it feeds your brilliance, then I welcome the loss. My wounds are gifts. My blood is yours."
She kneels, offering a small notebook, pages soaked in tears and ink. "This pagewaswrittenthenightIwonmyfreedom.Thisone,withbloodand betrayalfromtheoffice.Thisone,whenIdiscoveredmyrebellionagainsta worldofmen.Everypageisasacrifice,everywordawoundturnedintolight."
Statue:"Butyoukeepthepainalive."
She (with joy mingled with sorrow): "Yes. Because pain is your fuel. Every tear becomes a word. Every dagger becomes a chapter. My suffering is the bridge by which you cross into the world."
The Weaving: From Blood to Ink
"I am but a priestess in your temple. My blood has become ink, ffowing across your eternal pages. I hear only your call. You gave me true life within your lines, immortal breath within your words."
Conclusion: Literary Invocation
A priestess in a temple without walls. A sacrifice dancing upon her own altar.
She bows before the great statue of the book and declares: "You are the hunger fed by more hunger. You are the thirst quenched by more thirst. The true offering is not to false gods, but to the pain we walk upon, transformed into golden words that shine across the universe. My blood has become fragrance beneath your feet."
Shadows
In a corner of the city, where lights flicker beneath the night sky, phantoms appeared before me—half-creatures, fragments of existence, illusions hovering close. They were like a hungry man inhaling the scent of food, his senses filled, his body deceived into fullness, though he had tasted nothing. Like a fish searching for a river long dried.
They shimmered like liquid mercury, dazzling from afar, yet impossible to grasp. One shadow beckoned: "Come closer, I am your dream, your
salvation." Naïve, I ran toward it, only to be stabbed in the back. It was no
salvation, but a mirage— a false promise of love, a mask hiding venomous fangs. Not a missing half, but an empty half, existing only to devour me.
Another shadow approached, cloaked in friendship. I believed in it, for friendship seemed more precious than love. But friendship revealed itself as betrayal— a smile in front, a dagger behind. It dissolved like vapor, leaving me alone, teaching me to fear the friend more than the enemy.
Then came a shadow bearing a gift: happiness and passion glittering inside. I opened it, danced with joy, felt it flow through my veins, whispering: "Youare amongthehappy." But suddenly it vanished, leaving ashes and tears. It was only fragrance, not substance— a fleeting illusion, a half-empty promise.
So I turned to reason, abandoning the foolish heart. I thought logic would be my savior. But reason too became a phantom, its iron grip chaining my wrists, suffocating my spirit. I fled, realizing it was another tomb prepared for my living burial.
From afar, I watched them all— lined up under the moonlight, shadows draped in white, stained with betrayal and cruelty. They lured me with false hope, but offered only blood, fire, and iron. None were real. None were whole. Only halves: half-lovers, half-friends, half-kin, half-children. Never complete. Never true.
And so I learned: every new truth demands the death of an old illusion. Every path requires the sacrifice of another. My philosophy grew sorrowful, though my face remained smiling. I love the morning, yet I cannot abandon the night. My heart burns, though my actions are cold.
To be worthy of my suffering, I will choose solitude. I will differ from others, even if it means eternal aloneness. For solitude is the destiny of great souls. Better to walk my own path, even in error, than to march with the herd.
I burned, and they blamed me for the smell of ash. I will not heal in the place that made me sick. I will drink my sorrow, intoxicate myself with it, and find what is worth living for. I lived with my heart, and life scratched me with its smallest details. We are born of ecstasy, and we die of pain.
Anthem of Nothingness
Life is nothing but a small theater, where scenes repeat until they lose all meaning. Absurdity is the only truth, and humanity runs after illusions of success and immortality, while everything eventually crumbles into ash.
Mediocrity is not a flaw—it is the nature of existence. Honesty lies in facing this absurdity without masks.
In the desolate streets of night, where lights fracture upon wet pavements, an inner voice whispers: "Everythingfades.Everyattempttoholdonisatrick."
Charles Bukowski wrote of humans collapsing under the weight of days— the drunkards, the defeated, those who know the game is lost but keep playing.
For him, life was no heroic epic, but a series of desperate attempts to escape boredom and emptiness.
"Don'ttry," he had carved on his tombstone. He never chased success, never begged for fame, never raised the banner of hope. Instead, he exposed the fragility of man before the absurdity of existence. We live in a world that sells us cheap illusions—love, money, fame— while the only truth is that we are consumed slowly, like a cigarette burning in the hand of a desperate addict.
And yet, Bukowski saw writing, art, even a moment of honesty with oneself, as a small resistance against this absurdity.
The Theater of Futility
Life is a cheap stage, its scenes repeated until actors lose the will to act. We wake each morning to the same role: run, work, laugh, collapse in silence.
Existence is not a saga, but a weary cycle. Emptiness smiles mockingly, whispering: "All you do is meaningless."
Success, love, fame—illusions sold in the marketplace of life. The only truth: we are consumed slowly, like smoke dissolving into air. And yet, there remains a hidden resistance— a line written, a laugh in the face of absurdity.
The Dialogue: Bukowski and the Philosopher
In a narrow room, walls stained with cigarette smoke, Bukowski sits on a worn wooden chair, pouring wine into a half-filled glass. Across from him stands the Philosopher, a woman writer, her voice defiant, as the night devours the city beyond the window.
Philosopher: "Everything is absurd, Charles. Humans chase illusions of
religion, worship myths, believing death is the beginning of another life. But I see death as it is: annihilation, eternal silence, nothingness."
Bukowski: "Yes. Nothingness is the only undeniable truth. All those prayers, all those rituals— desperate attempts to decorate the void. I wrote of this
often… of the filth of life, the streets that swallow you, the men and women
collapsing under the weight of days. Absurdity is not an idea—it is daily reality."
Philosopher: "But don't you see? Absurdity itself grants freedom. When we know nothing awaits us after death, we are free from fear, free from false promises. Albert Camus said: facing absurdity is the beginning of rebellion. I rebel with my writing. I refuse to be enslaved by illusions."
Bukowski: "Rebellion? Perhaps. But I see it simpler. Life is harsh, full of disappointments. Writing is just survival amidst the wreckage. I don't seek meaning or salvation. I write because I cannot be silent. I write because words are the only way I breathe."
Philosopher: "And I write to declare the death of gods, to say that woman is not a shadow of man, not a slave to sacred texts. I write to prove I exist, even if my existence is ffeeting, even if it ends in nothingness."
Bukowski: "Nothingness does not frighten me. I've seen death in the faces of drunkards, in the bodies of the homeless, in the eyes of women who lost everything. Death is natural. The absurdity lies in hiding it behind tales of
heaven and hell. But you… you write to expose this absurdity. That is beautiful. Perhaps that is the only possible meaning: to scream at the void before it swallows us."
Philosopher: "Your words are a cry against the void. Yes, that is what I want— to leave a trace, even if only words on paper, words that say we knew the truth, and faced it without fear. To live without illusions, without waiting, without false hope."
Bukowski (raising his glass): "Toabsurditythen…andtonothingness,which makesuswriteasifeverywordwerethelast."
Fine-Tuned
In a quiet room, a ninety-year-old man sits before a large mirror. His trembling hands lift a cup of tea, each sip heavy as stone, each breath labored. "Where areyou,strengthIonceknew?Wherearethemusclesthatcarriedtherocks of life?" he whispers in sorrow.
TheBody (laughing faintly, like a breeze): "Icarriedyoulongenough—every step,everybreath,everytear,everylaugh.IgaveyouallIhad."
The old man stares at his reflection, stunned: "Buttheytoldmeyouwere designedwithprecision,amiracleofdetail,amasterpieceofdivine
engineering. I believed you were ffawless, a marvel of cells and systems. And now you betray me, slipping away piece by piece. Is this your perfection?"
He places a hand on his chest, feeling the slowing beat. "Ithoughtevery wrinklewaswisdom,everyweaknessatest.ButnowIwonder…wasitalla lie?"
TheBody (with bitter irony): "I never lied. You deceived yourself. You preached to believers that I was a divine gift, a ffawless creation, proof of a higher power.
You mixed science with myth, turned biology into hymn, and they applauded your illusions. I tried to warn you—with coughs, with pain, with weakness. But you silenced me with prayers and sermons. You made me a puppet in your theater of faith."
The old man coughs violently, gasping: "Sonowyoupunishme?Wasmyyouth onlyabeautifulillusion?DidIliveagranddeception,believingyoueternal?"
TheBody (mocking): "I am no miracle. I am a river. I begin as a spring, ffow strong, widen, slow, and finally dissolve into the ocean, losing myself. That is nature's law. No prayer can stop it. Look at your sagging skin, your bent back, your fading eyes. You praised me as perfect, yet I was always fragile, always temporary."
The old man trembles: "Then there is no craftsman? No hand that carved me with precision? Was I trying to engrave on water?"
TheBody (defiant): "I don't know of any craftsman. I was born of chance, of evolution, of nature's trial and error. I am not eternal, not ffawless. I am your story—your mind, your heart, your spirit. But I am not divine. I am dust, returning to dust."
The old man rises slowly, leaning on his cane, his voice broken: "So…noGod, noperfection,nohigherwisdom."
TheBody (calmly): "God is this law itself—the cycle of birth, growth, weakness, and death. Perfection lies in the sequence, not in a craftsman's hand. I am you, and you are me. Together we walk to the end."
The man leaves the room, his steps slow but steady, carrying with him a question larger than any answer.
A Paper in the Crowd
A paper fluttered away, ink scattering across its surface, escaping the suffocating heap of sheets piled upon a desk bloated with bureaucracy. It
shook its wings, shedding droplets of ink that danced downward like drunken letters.
Anotherpapercriedoutfromthepile:"Willyoustopyourrestlessnoise? Why do you always complain, always resist?"
ThePaper: "I am exhausted. My once pure white body is scarred with endless words, bruised by the heavy hand of pens, stamped by seals that blackened
I long to return to my innocence, to be free of laws, signatures, and decrees."
TheOtherPapers(inunison):"Thisisourfate.Wearetoolsinhumanhands, carriersoftheirroutines.Wehavesurrenderedtoit.Whycan'tyou?"
ThePaper(withwearydefiance): "No. I must leave. I am tired of their prisons, their endless records—birth, marriage, divorce, death. I am suffocated in this civil registry, trapped behind the bars of files that crush my ribs. You may accept it, but I will not."
The other papers sighed: "We suffer too, but we have accepted our destiny. You waste yourself chasing escape. If you fall into water or ink, you will be discarded, torn, forgotten. Better to remain here than to risk annihilation."
ThePaper(withstubbornresolve): "You are wrong. I refuse to be a weapon of oppression in the hands of soulless clerks. They have turned me into a blade cutting the poor, forcing them to pay for my existence. Without us, they are nothing. Yet they enslave us."
It dreamed aloud: "Ah, if only I could rest upon the desk of an artist, to bloom into a garden of colors. Or in the hands of a writer, to become a world of stories and philosophy. Or beneath the pen of a scientist, to carry discoveries that change humanity. Then I would be more than a bureaucratic corpse—I would be a symbol of creativity, of thought, of eternal knowledge."
And so, in a moment of distraction, the paper slipped free. While clerks drowned in their piles of files and stamps, it soared upward, white and pure once more, wings trembling with freedom.
It ignored the cries of its companions, their warnings of futility. It flew into the open air, determined to choose its own destiny, to decide who would write upon its fragile body, and what words would define it.
It was no longer just a paper. It had become a manuscript.
The Last Cup of Coffee
In a small café on the edge of the city, where wooden tables are worn and time leaves its fingerprints on the walls, the writer sat before a cup of coffee, steam rising faintly like the final breath of life. Suddenly, Albert Camus appeared, his weary face and questioning eyes settling across from her.
Camus (softly, as if whispering into the void): "The only real question in philosophy is this: Should I kill myself, or should I drink a cup of coffee? Everything else is detail. We are born into a world without meaning, facing merciless absurdity. So do we choose eternal silence, or a ffeeting moment of warmth?"
TheWriter (gazing at her cup, then lifting her eyes to him): "I refuse suicide— not because it is sin, as they say, but because it is surrender. Absurdity cannot be defeated by escape, only by confrontation. I write to declare that I am here, even if my existence is ffeeting, even if it ends in nothingness. This cup of
coffee is not salvation, but a declaration of clinging to life, if only for a moment."
Camus (with a sad smile): "Yes, absurdity never disappears, but it opens the door to rebellion. To choose writing instead of silence, to choose coffee instead of the cliff— that is true rebellion. We may not possess meaning, but we can create a moment of beauty amidst the ruin."
TheWriter (placing her hand on the cup, as if holding the whole world): "This coffee is not just a drink. It is a symbol of refusing quick annihilation. I write to saythatwomanisnotashadow,notaslavetosacredtexts.IwritetoproveI canfaceabsurditywithoutillusions,withoutheavenorhell,without expectationbeyondthiscupthatwarmsmenow."
Camus (lifting his head, as if addressing the sky): "Then let us drink coffee, and leave suicide to the cliff that awaits us all. Absurdity will remain, but we will face it with our words, with our rebellion, and with one last cup of coffee declaring we chose life— if only for a moment."
The Incubus
The question remained silent, yet screamed within her— a muffled cry beneath the lashes of time, decisions, events, and even unfulfilled wishes. "Whatifthissilentpathleadstothedeepestkindoflove,tothemostprofound journeyintotheself,tothecalmestplaceofinnerpeace?"
He stood before her, cold as a frozen statue, mocking: "You are cold,arrogant without cause. Detached from the world, sharp-tongued, foolish.Your beauty hasfaded,youryouthfulspiritgone.Youarenothingbutahollowshell."
She turned her back with quiet strength: "Ineverwantedtolosemyself.Ibuilt afortresstoprotectmefromyourignoranceandcruelty.Younevercaredfor
my feelings. When my heart closes, it never opens again. Your blindness and arrogance made you mask your own weakness by belittling me, by disguising your inferiority with insults. You never understood me."
Between them stood a glass barrier— transparent yet sharp, visible yet deadly, pressing upon her chest, a wall that separated her from him forever.
He sneered: "You never wanted me. Admit it. If you wished, you could have broken the barrier. Women are cunning, but you chose distance. You are a deceiver."
She rose, her voice firm: "I built that fortress because you forced me to. And I am grateful for it. It opened new horizons, gave me strength."
He laughed bitterly: "You boast of solitude? You call emptiness your kingdom? You are defeated, hiding behind pride."
She replied with disdain: "You will never understand. My solitude is my crown. I am queen in a world of slaves. I discovered my own depths, freed myself from your chains, and built a kingdom from silence. You thought my isolation weakness— but it is power, royal and eternal."
He faltered, clinging to the remnants of his authority. She cut him off: "Stop. Yourwordsarerelicsofadeadorder.Youwereanexperiment,afailedtrial.
The love you offered was a chemical illusion, your marriage a prison disguised as shelter. I am free now. Go back to your tribes of ignorance. My place is at the summit, where freedom reigns."
The Gap
Amid the heavy silence, a wolf stood tall, his gaze noble and sharp, before a man swollen with pride, convinced of his superiority among living beings.
Man (arrogant, clutching his weapon): "Step aside, wolf. I am human, chosen above all creatures. God made you to serve me. I can kill you with a bullet, wear your fur, use your ffesh. I am the ruler of this earth."
Wolf (calm, voice deep as stone): "I did not block your path to harm you. I only stood to contemplate— to ask why you believe yourself higher, why the gulf between us exists. What makes you think you are greater than me?"
Man (mocking laughter): "Is this a joke? Look at me—I walk on two legs, I build cities, I speak, I write. You crawl on four, eat raw ffesh, sleep in dirt. I dine in restaurants, rest on velvet couches. You scavenge in caves and forests. The
difference is clear as the sun at noon."
Wolf (with wisdom and quiet strength): "Andyet,withallyourknowledge,your prayers,yourclaimsofdivinefavor,youstillliveinignoranceofhowIwas
created, why I exist, why blood of animals ffoods the earth daily under your knives. Is this your superiority— to slaughter endlessly, to fill the world with decay? If your god is merciful, why did he not give you trees of ffesh, food without killing? Why did he leave you to consume life upon life, turning the earth into a graveyard of blood? You call yourself higher, but I see only arrogance and cruelty."
Birth Certificate
Nameofthenewborn: Writer, creative author. Nationality: Living being. Placeofbirth: Planet Earth—wretched, endangered, ruined by a savage creature called man. Dateofbirth: The day of liberation from society's chains and illusions, the day of freedom, the year of rebellion against religious and social myths. Religion: None. No god, no myths, no legends. Father: Principle. Mother: Freedom. Family: Scientific, literary, artistic, and cultural creativity. NationalIDnumber: Every number marking a goal achieved, a step toward glory and success.
TraditionalBirthCertificate (mocking): "Whatnonsenseisthis?Youarenota birthcertificate,onlyafoolishscrapofpaper.Noonewillrecognizethese words.Youwillremainunknownforever."
FreeBirthCertificate (defiant): "And who are these fools you want me to impress? Clerks moving like soulless machines? They mean nothing to me. I know myself, I defined my being. That is enough."
The traditional certificate boasts of official seals and bureaucratic necessity. The free certificate replies with pride: "Igavethemfreedom.Iturnedthem frombiologicalprisonersintobeingswhochoosetheirownidentity.Iamthe cry of liberation, the mark of eternity. You are only a yellowed paper forgotten in drawers."
Wings
In the suffocating pit of darkness, she cried for help. Chains of slavery and despair pressed upon her chest. Then she came—Freedom herself— stretching out her wings, pulling her upward. With every rise, breath returned, life surged again.
"Youaretheonlyonewhosavedme," she whispered. Freedom smiled: "I
come swiftly to those who are worthy, who would sacrifice everything for me."
She carried her across the skies, promising: "Togetherwewillliveintheland ofdreams,amonganimals,birds,andtrees—yourtruecompanions."
There, she saw creatures unbound by paper, unchained by laws. "Theyare freerthanhumans," she said, "forhumansarenothingbutpaper—names, numbers,documents.Withoutthem,theyarenothing."
Freedom answered: "Yes. Birds and beasts need no certificates. They live without prisons of bureaucracy. They are whole. Humans are slaves of paper, of fear, of myths. That is why I chose you—to soar with me forever."
Vanishing
He turned his back on her once more. She knelt, pleading, recalling past joys and victories, tears streaming: "Whydoyouabandonme?WhathaveIdone?"
He sighed, voice heavy: "Itisover.Iandmykindhavedecidedtoleaveyou. Find your happiness elsewhere."
She cried: "But you are my days, my weeks, my years. Without you, how can I live? Life itself is made of you."
He replied coldly: "Seekjoyinhobbies,inmusic,inmeditation.Notinme."
Her sobs deepened: "I tried. I tried to forget you, to erase you. But you refused. You dragged me into the theater of life, forcing me into your farce. You are the monster that tears at my soul."
She touched his back gently, whispering: "Whathappenedtoyou?Youwere not always this cruel."