As I started to hate this melancholy

I wouldn't try to highlight the importance of words in my life
nor would I try to describe the burden they impose on me.
It is, I believe, merely the painful craving of a bird in a cage to fly. Word lie to us, they betray us and humiliate us, yet we love them more than anything else in this word.

I didn't come here to write about them, tho. It is simply my night time ritual of wasteful trials to express myself.
Today was the 4th day of January. As of Iran's movements, things are getting worse evermore. As of the rest of the world: the same path toward hell, if I may claim so.

And what will future bring us? I am no more holding my breath for it. I have now grown up enough to know that life is a tipsy acrobat teetering on the brinks. If you do have a moment of potential happiness, do suck it's marrow, for it will be gone soon.

I have absoultely no complain about life. My life is well empty I shall claim, but that is merely my own fault, I have had the chance to make it better. I did not go after things and people I loved. I did not reach my hands to catch the things within an inch of my finger tips. I laid sluggish on my melancholic deathbed all days long. Ah, pfu, even now I am too lazy to embelish this little writing, or try to give it a meaning or structure. Who cares. It is 11:25 now. And I shall meet my pillows shortly.