Origin of Thoughts

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep.   I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write.   My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read: She   bla...

As long as you live, may you always remember that you were never born to love, rather you were born to save yourself. We are not capable of affection even if we think we are, because what sustains us is the belief that we, as humans are never complete, and in the back of our minds we never wish to be, but it’s surprising how easily we assume that someone can complete us.  We’re spread across all of the island, some on the cliffs, others on the shore. Sometimes we wish to catch, other times, fall.  But we can never love.  When we think we love someone we are simply tempted, that we are able to accept their differences, and we hope that they do the same for us. We connect because we suffer or we have suffered, we connect through the similar miseries and sorrows.  But no, we can never love.  Affection is misery. It is a surrender. But in its completeness, affection is non-existent.  But affection, in its own true n...

Kiss your shoulders. Raise your hand and suck on your wrist, to know how it feels to be loved. Wait for the goosebumps, then slowly let them rest on your cheeks. Noone will know what happened. The day ends, the light rests on the hills, just like that girl's head rested on the boy's lap, you know, just a while ago? And when they closed their eyes the night was declared. Will they ever know? Clickety-clack. Your heels have made their last noise for the day. The room is just how you left it in the morning. What will you do to see the chair, maybe a little on the left? Maybe a few strange and warm wrinkles on the bed?  You're home. Someone needs to know that you're home. Your heels made noise. Someone needs to hear it.  You burnt your dinner. You wore your sweater inside out. Your socks don't match.  Noone will ever know.  And the only sound that will drown the noise of you chewing, is the sound, the terrible shreak of you, acc...

For the most part of our lives, we remain foolish. In our childhood we were too young to care. Our distractions drive us away from the real tension that we create. And what we create will always be a questioning thought, which we don't need in the first place. Maybe we revolve around these thoughts, because we have nothing else to do. We roam around criticizing people that aren't like us, we worship those who rebelled the way we couldn't, we laugh when we live the way we always wanted, and just when we become what we realize, it's still missing something. Beyond our addictions and regrets, our whirlpool of emotions and the numb feelings that never, ever leave us, we will never know why we still do this. And yet we still do it. Humans are foolish. They don't just stop at survival. They explore existence and they'll never get tired of it. It's foolish, because then happiness will be at a distance, but the ones who make it will realize that there is more than ...

Because I can't feel my legs anymore. They're dangling on the floor of a room miles away, where they wish to be. Not here. They were not meant to be here this long. Fingers try to make castles out of the humid dry air. Nothing. The dark is blinding. And I see everything. That's why it all mixes up into one single colour. The colour of the world. And you think I can't see a thing. And my mind? You ask if my mind was in the right place? Could you point me out where it is actually supposed to be? Is it supposed to be dangling on the butcher's where all of you have laid yours? Have you thrown it to the sea because you wanted to start clear? You know where my mind is? It's in the middle of a bridge. One side of it leads to your reality. Another leads to my home. Tell me where I should go.

Imagine an age, an era, cramped into a single moment. We're bridges and buildings, burning, falling, rising, touching skies then falling again. Nothing remains forever. But the remains are forever to stay. It's an age cramped into a single moment. It's in one moment, which you pick up your pen. Inside you, you dust off the corners of your brain, search for the right words, the right depth, the right freefall. For that spot on the paper, which will be the beginning of your story. Blink, blink again, or close your eyes altogether and feel your soul searching, picking, and scratching in your flesh to find the right idea, the right treasure. Drink. Drink while you still can, drink everything you see. Drink the emptiness of the glass, the whiskey bottle, there is still some inspiration wandering. Drink the smell of your ink; drink the feel of the paper against your palms. Drink the passion of the love you just made. Search for more. You're still thirsty. Yo...

A Week After The Valentine's I haven't understood love. As we grow up, our perception of love and life differs greatly. Often, we tend to overshadow one with the other, and that is exactly where we make mistakes. Balance. Balance. Balance. It's everything we want. What's worse, is that we are flawless humans, which means we have a chain of imperfections and we constantly need someone to appreciate them. Why, I wonder, can't we do it ourselves? My greatest struggle with self is acceptance. Appreciation. I'm divided. I want to show people that I am divided. Then I want them to love me even more. That's love for me. Valentine's day comes and goes, yet not a single day do you accept yourself. We leave the job of loving ourselves to each other. We praise each other, talk at lengths about each other, find ourselves in each other. Because we chose the other, before ourselves. We tend to sink in the gravity of someone else's affection. It's ou...

You. It's strange how we crave for isolation but disgust our loneliness. Imagine this. How would you feel if you were changing the world but nobody knew? Today, my loneliness could not embrace me. I kept looking for answers, for reasons for why I am how I am. Why I exist. What difference do I make. I make no difference. I want no one to help me. My own isolation guides me. I find little, sometimes no pleasure in blending with people. What do I do then? I work. I work some more. When I'm done, who's going to be the one to see what I've done? The people of course. The people I forgot about. We all do this. If you don't, you're one step ahead of me. If you do, you're still ahead of me, that is,if you haven’t lost your mind questioning your existence like I did. How often have you not been able to explain your sorrow? The truth is, you can. You actually know the reason why you are in such a pain. Your life is purely doubtful. Your existence...

Inside Out. I'm running. I'm running, so fast that my breath is louder than my footsteps. I have no time to tumble. Behind me I see people shouting at me to run faster, telling me how proud they are of me. In front of me, I see my heroes, waiting to grab me and pull me to a place beyond this soul crushing forest. Sometimes I don't know what I am running for. It's like I'm running, looking for places where I can heal, but with every mile I keep losing bits and pieces of me. Often, I get scared that at the end, there will be nothing left of me. That one day I will reach the mountain top but when I look at myself I will see nothing. Nothing at all. Is it worth it? One day, I will not be scared of death. I will let it feast on me and happily remember all the times this body has helped me, betrayed me. But for now, I'm a coward. I don't yet want to meet my inner self. This side of me has done too many wrongs. I have though, explored myself in so m...

The Person Behind This Person Dear Friend, I'm trying to be myself. I'm not yet there. Over the years I have looked at this body, these words, these possibilities, through other's eyes. Mirrors cannot penetrate deep into my soul and show me the real me, and neither can you. You have yourself to take care of first. I am a mere creature, whose body is relaxed peacefully on this chair, but whose soul has been aimlessly wandering through the streets of this city for years, hoping, that maybe today it would find its true identity. I wonder how I am. I have not met with myself, someday, though, I will. I will meet myself lost in time, sometimes looking for scissors to chop off my rough edges, other times sharpening my soul. I will meet myself, grab shoulders, shake myself up and look straight into my own eyes. I want to see me. How am I? Why do I never get tired of this question? Why do I always want to hear from people about how I am even if I know their answers? W...

The undecided being Our tracks were never made. We will never make them either. Paths aren't  created for others to walk on. And no one, I swear no one will ever walk the same path that you have. Our lives are as vast as this land. Our paths will be just the same way. Do you make your path to walk on? You don't. You don't have a path. You don't build one. You don't follow a trail. Life was never about having a path. Life was always, always about getting lost. But life was never about losing your purpose. It was never about looking at your past or future. Life is, and will always be, about finding peace. The true meaning of existence, of becoming a human. Why do we spend hours trying to figure out what is wrong with us? Why don't we stop in the middle and realize that life is just a part of the existence? That mistakes are not worth sobbing over if we don't have much time? Do you know how close you are to death? Do you realize how morta...