i listen to this song. because it's the cruelest of numbers. it's twenty-one.

to all the people i've known
to all the things i've touched
all the raindrops i've felt on my skin
all the thoughts i've thought and
all the dreams i've dreamt and lost
it's right this moment
that
i could see all of it
all of you
crystal clear
some of you
made me sad
some of you
made me laugh
some of the things i came face to face
and
eye to eye
amazed me
some of the worlds i've traveled to
left me clueless
and i found myself lost
some of the days i've been through
grasped me
and blessed me
and i thought i finally got it
but eventually i saw that
i was clueless again
but right at this moment
right now
it's a new day
it's a new me...
all because of you.
thank you. 

Gregory. The youngest son of Ernest Hemingway writes to his father in November 1952, right after his 21st birthday:

When it's all added up, papa, it will be: 

he wrote a few good stories, had a novel and fresh approach to reality 

and he destroyed five persons - Hadley, Pauline, Marty , Patrick and possibly myself. 

Which do you think is the most important, 

your self-centered shit, the stories or the people?

Heart-breaking. Although I think people better stop blaming their parents for their miseries - I don't deny that parents could destroy one's life, however once you begin to notice it you shall try your best to get out of it. I know it's not easy at all-. 

Still seeing these lines touches somewhere. Especially if you are struggling with yourself, your desires, your darkest holes, your fears, your limitations while walking through the path of art. How far can I go? What can I sacrifice from to express this thing in me, to make it real, to flesh it out? 

Why people see to kill for God or to sacrifice for God unacceptable but admire to those who could do anything for Art? 

What I believe is the art is the artist or the limits of the artist is the limit of the art. 

What I cannot figure out yet is that how far I should go... 

What I realize after this letter is that there's nothing more dramatic than this question from a son to his father: 

Which do you think is the most important, 

your self-centered shit, the stories or the people?

what is hell?

if not your sorrow on the earth

that 

grabs you 

tortures you

pushes you in a dark hole

and

laughs at you

while you are begging for mercy ...

the fire is not out there
it burns you inside out
sing even more
if you can't bear

what is hell, anyway...

something other than 

your own self? 

poor you...

to exist

is already a problematic situation.

it really is hard to believe

if you think about it. 

especially if you dream a lot 

while sleeping. 

and also

it is more than an issue of believing in it

it is an issue of experiencing it as well.

on every level it's an issue.

then

you find yourself in a situation

where

your existence is not a problem of your own

but

is a problem for a group of people, too. 

while you are trying hard to 

make believe 

yourself

that 

you exist 

and 

maybe for some reason...

there comes a group of people

with dark faces

yelling at you

saying that

you shouldn't be existing the way you are.

so

even though i am not quite convinced myself

i would still say:

"i do exist. deal with it."

love me love me

say that you love me

:)

there are some words
that
if you never say, they will hinder everything else.

you might say:
could you please pass the salt?
while those unspoken words are lingering in the air.
and so
even if someone passes the salt
and you salt your dish
it would not taste as salty as you want it to be.
'cause all the tastes
and all the scents
and all the sights
and all the touches
are now under the shade of the unspoken words.
'cause now
you are...
gone.

and no one knows that you are gone. 

when she speaks

on church street

11/09/2011

When I first arrived USA two and a half years ago there were two lines, B and Q, from here to Manhattan. B line was express. So it wasn't a big deal to live far in Brooklyn. Then MTA took charge and announced that B line would not be running express for the upcoming 2 years.

Unfortunately too sick to go out to take a picture of B train, so I just googled one. Here's the source: http://brandonjulien.blogspot.com/2011/04/weekday-service-changes.html 

I remember standing on the platform and reading the post. I told to myself: "Fine! B will start running express right after I leave USA".

Time has passed. 3rd of October arrived. Supposedly I was going to be back in Istanbul. But I'm still here, living far in Brooklyn and B is express again.

I don't know how those two and a half year has passed? Time is more express than B train and 35 minutes is still too slow for me to commute Manhattan every single day.

Human beings' lifes are full of paradoxes. How come 2 and a half year could pass faster than a 35 minute travel?

***

Life is short, moments are not.

sometimes i feel all i see is just a canvas. people. places. rooms. animals. trees. i feel i can tear off the scene and finally get in touch with the reality beyond it.

this world is too complicated for me.

i am a prisoner

of

the language i use.

all the things i want.

all the things i buy.

all the dreams that i dream but don't dare to make them come true.

i am a prisoner

of

myself.

need a breakthrough.

any leads?

it doesn't matter

if you travel there

or

here

or

far away...

if you travel with the same baggage...

well,

as i said.

it doesn't matter.

recycle my life please.

i am between

the editing

the writing

the casting

the cooking

the smiling

the crying

the running away

the staying

(...)

between

to be

or

not to be

bipolar.

waste.

desireofplayingbasketball.

needtochange.

stillalive.

needtodie.

summary of a day.

notes on #Jan25

remember me

'cause i looked into your eyes

i was breathing once

then

just

a blast

"Yesterday we were all Tunisian. Today we are all Egyptian. Tomorrow we'll all be free".

let the history to be written by not the powerful but the right one, once.

why should i leave home?

all i need is this, this, and this.

and i have them here.

so what's the point?

some people are like vampires.

but a bit different than original ones.

they don't suck the blood out of you.

they are more interested in your stories...

your life stories which are full of mistakes, miseries, regrets...

but not joyful ones.

and when they approach you.

and when they ask you with a voice full of curiosity

"did something bad happen?"

and if you open up because you are in a desperate need of human closure

then

they suck your story out of you

and leave you there

with a feeling of being raped, in a way...

then never come back

until the next time

they see you with a sad face.

there is nothing as tomorrow.

and i always find myself listening to this

when i think about tomorrow that doesn't exist at all.