Someone brings you into a closed circle, makes you live in a painful state, nests in viruses that disturb you, you try to leave them but you feel helpless because the illusion that he planted inside you is almost like a rusty bracelet. It will prick you, and your bone will gnaw, because the thorn in the depths of you is so sharp that it draws a bloody wound, and you see with your own eyes the streaks of blood scatter its full color on the pages of your heart that is afflicted by delusion.
You may not actually see anything remarkable, but the illusion is often more soul penetrating and looks like an old sponge has sucked everything out, lining it on a faded blackboard.
Here you are the meaning of the wounds, here you are the suffering with fake wounds, no more. Imaginary images bring you down and trample the feet of these demonic beasts that are called the thoughts of the stolen mind, and wrapped in the shackles of illusion. It leads you to the abyss of daily weariness, and shortens your life because you loved someone and made him your ideal image without knowing. In it, you see nothing but your distorted image, you touch nothing but your trembling hand, you feel nothing but your withered eyelids, and you feel nothing but your eyelashes, which have become like lean, empty palms.
How miserable you are, you who are submissive behind the shadow of illusion, chained with worn-out eyelashes, chained with threads older than time, and worse than a solar eclipse when the sun gives up its pure gold, and seeps into existence like a thief masked with black, dark cloth through which you see nothing but the stillness of life. And the stagnation of time at the post-vacuum stages.
This is you when you chew the milk of your imaginary grandfather, this is you when you meow like a sick cat, its claws become like hooked thorns in the side of its loss, you are like this, and even more when the illusion becomes your message in this world, when you are an old lion, a quarrelsome rabbit slays him, and an ant penetrates his ears This is you, when you make the illusion of a lock of hair caress the forehead of a miserable woman.
Delusion is a malignant tumor in the head of the delusional, and it is a poisoned dagger in the mind of the one who holds the ember of weeping images.
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