I bent down a lot

I have stooped a lot lately, and I still see my things like blinds, I don't hear music, I don't like the sea, I'm not tempted by the sun, I'm really useless, and the mood is vain.

And I turn into a pillow that no one sleeps and no one leans on, is it a shame?

I don't know what it really is, and the writer is lonely as an owl waiting for her lyre in a sky full of birds, a kind of fantasy, a very narrow imagination.
And I am never tired of hope, perhaps this is the disease, a wide imagination, and a narrow hope.