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Theater of Childhood & Life (1)

I sit on my sofa.. near my window .. and drink my coffee.

I don’t like coffee, but something drives me to sip it.

My window crashes with raindrops so that it sings me to the dregs .. Winter .. Anything worse in winter than drinking coffee?!

It reminds me of Turkey and France, it makes me feel cold in my back, and it makes me goosebumps … and anything in the winter is better than cinnamon flavored tea?

My teapot is boiling over my heater. I hate winter! But it tempts me to write, my memories take me back five years ago … ten years ago …  fifteen years ago and more … My memories bring me back to beautiful days when I was short, and my childhood voice, my memory brings me back to the days when I made my own world in which no one knows anything about it. No one has entered my world. I remembered many things that I had forgotten, some of them I chose to forget about it voluntarily.

The most beautiful of those days was that I began to remember playing in the street in front of the house that we lived in for many years, I spent more time on that street more than I had inside the house, I learned from it more than what schools taught me, and I played in it as I did not do anywhere else, it testified to all the details of my life, it was a laboratory for my experiences and inventions, it embraced my hopes and dreams, it was a well for my secrets and a repository of my childish disasters, I said in it what I wanted and did what I wanted without thinking about the punishment or reprimand, I’ve hidden in it my small mistakes when I thought they were as big as crimes.

And now, after all these years, I still remember the colors of the walls and I still hear echoes of my songs.

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