I can’t start writing a poem. It feels very hard after so many years, in the world of maturity, in the world of what people accept, in the world where society has made its rules. I just shrink in a vacuum, surviving life like a boneless octopus that easily escapes through a small hole. My imagination is scattered like dust in the atmosphere. I need motivation, like how, under the morning sun rays, we can finally see the dust. Like that, I need motivation to see my old self again.