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امشب وسط همون خیابون وایسادم…
همونجایی که کفشامون با خون رفیقام خیس شد.
بعضی خیابونا هیچوقت از حافظه پاک نمیشن.
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I won't open my weary eyes
To the fields of ruins I've left behind
When sorrow sang its morbid chant
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They mistake patience for weakness. They mistake kindness for surrender. That’s the luxury of people who’ve never stood at the edge with nothing but their name. I don’t chase crowns. I watch kingdoms collapse under the weight of men who thought they were untouchable. In the end, history remembers neither the loudest voice nor the richest hand… only the one who refused to kneel.
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On that silent night in the small bookstore, as the dim light flickered between the shelves, I spoke of Dostoevsky to a stranger who, like me, had found in him a lifeline. In that exchange, I realized I had chosen the right path. Every step between those cages of books was a step toward myself, toward a truth I had almost lost, but now, in that quiet, I was found.
