I am sitting at my desk again. The safest point in the world. I stare at the acacia tree behind the window from the top of the monitor, wondering what book to read today and which world to travel to. I’m bored with these realist drama stories these days. I wish I was able to escape.

I wish I could tie my room like Carl Frederickson with a bunch of colorful balloons and fly in the sky. Or ride my house like Dorothy and take it with me wherever I want. Wherever I can be myself, just myself. Many people think that I am hiding in my room because of misery. They think how depressed and lonely I am; but they cannot comprehend, even with a pinch, the amount of peace and relief I have in this voluntary isolation. After all, how do they know what it is like to play with words?

Words are the least expected and kindest friends of all time. They alleviate your grief without having to pay a dollar for counseling. They flow like water in your mind. They are released like alcohol in your veins. They wake you up like caffeine. Words are the most unique human invention; Misery, however, is when you become a slave to one word and ignore the others.

The old man from the neighbor’s house, like every day, comes in those striped pajamas up to his chest to water the pots on his terrace. He looks at me and shakes his head regretfully that I sit there every day.

I do not know why I can not stand people like before. Even my closest friends make me tired. I do not understand their words. I can hardly smile. I pretend. I do not know how this distance between me and the world around me came; But all I want right now is for no one to take away my little joy and peace. This little privacy. This is what I want from the whole world. I do not want anything else. Please do not let anyone bother me.

The presence of the old man is too much. I can not stand his sharp look. Especially these days when every old man looks scary and mysterious like Khorramdin’s father. I close the window and draw the curtains. I have to say goodbye to my acacia tree for a few hours. I am downloading Kafka Metamorphosis to read for the second time. Unconsciously, my eye goes through the first two lines of his critique. I smirk and as I wait for my book to finish downloading, I ask myself why do people think loneliness is the most considerable human pain? Why do they think Kafka wrote metamorphosis to say that a person alien to the world becomes alien to himself?

Voluntary loneliness is always the person who has climbed the stairs of time and space and achieved infinite peace on the clouds. People take the trouble of communicating with other people to be not alone, which is ridiculous. Loneliness is the wondrous world of self-knowledge and cosmology. Loneliness means the ability to break the bubble of human self-centered illusion.

When I finish my book, I raise my head to look at the acacia tree. I forgot that I had closed the window from the old voyeur of the neighbor’s house and pulled down the curtains. When I get up, my computer desk suddenly falls and turns upside down. What an awful thing? My monitor falls to the ground. I feel like an earthquake. I feel dizzy. I reach for the library as if standing on a ladder. I could never get Camus’s alien book on this top floor without a stool. A wave of intertwined thoughts surrounds my mind.

I still do not understand the earthquake or what? My head is confused. I press my eyelids tightly several times, and at the same time, I think, what should I do with my monitor? How can I rebuy a computer with these costs?

I open my eyes and look at my upside-down table. I see two horse legs in my room through a misty gray cloud that blinds my eyes. I’m definitely delusional. My heart is in turmoil. My father used to say that the washing machine was turned on in my stomach at such times.

There is a commotion in my head, but the horse’s legs are still there. Clear as my monitor is broken on the ground. Where are my feet? I put my hand on my waist. I lift my blouse. I no longer have a navel. I have become a horse from the waist down. My orange shorts are torn and crumpled like a balloon that has burst, crumpled, and collapsed on the ground.

I close my eyes again and open them and try to turn. I turn my back on the library and hear the loud banging of my buttocks on the library floors. A bunch of books is thrown from the bottom to the floor. I am like, like a person who gave up his hatchback car and now has a sedan. I’m trying to take a step. The sound of my feet echoes on the floor in the apartment. I turn my head and look back. I have a long black tail on the hip of my cheek. Bright black. I have never had long hair, and now, instead of black hair, I have a messy and disheveled tail.

I open and close my eyes again. I know this is an illusion; it is a dream. I want to move in my room again; But the pounding of the soles of my feet on the stone floor of the room makes such a loud noise that the downstairs neighbor shouts in the stairs:

– What the fuck are you doing up there?

Now I’m standing there. Half-human, half horse, in the form of a lone centaur in the Iron City of dwarves.