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The Accident

Posted: October 19, 2017 in Uncategorized
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The Accident

 

“Hi,”she said.

“How are you,” she asked and that was enough to fuck me up. Not because I was sad or bad or even mad but because it was her who asked how I was. She shattered all the pieces I had glued. They all stuck to each other I had thought and I was back to who I was, but had I ever known who I was. I mean the one who was free from wounds, scars and pain. Who was I going to be without them, I wondered. Without my wounds, scars, tears and cries who was I , what was I, I asked. How empty I looked to myself while trying to empty myself. What did I want for God’s sake, I asked my hungry-self. Experience but no wound…knowledge but no responsibility or headache…wisdom but no fucking pain or heartache…best of all I wanted power to murder all my weaknesses…but what kind of power would ever bring my pieces back and make me unbreakable, I wondered.

 

“I am fine, how about you,” I asked.

“I am okay, thanks,” she replied. I did not see her to know how sincere she was. “She is not really okay,” whispered my heart but I was not brave enough to ask whether she was or not. But I knew she was not somehow. And I knew she was not brave enough to say more, to ask more, to talk more…so she hushed up her heart and let it bleed like I did and we both listened to the sound of our pain for a while, thousands of miles away from each other.

 

broken rose 2

 

“I dreamed of you last night,” said she unexpectedly. It was courageous of her to say that. And I did not know what to say.

“I moved to another place, that must be the reason why,” I said , not daring to hear her dream.

“Where did you move to,” she asked, drifting away from what she had initially wanted to communicate knowingly or unknowingly, willingly or unwillingly…it was not that clear to me.

 

“I moved somewhere near the sea,” said I, pain of her accident in the darkest part of my heart.

“I wish you happiness in your new house,” said she, knowing perfectly well that happiness had got little to do with the house sometimes even none.

 

“Thank you…come and watch the sunset with me on the balcony one day,” said I. I listened to the silence, it was loud, it was wet, it was long… and it was resentful…

 

“It is still hard for me to walk, especially when the roads are not so good,” said she.

“The roads are not so bad here,” I said but she knew that they were. She knew that she was worth nothing before the accident like everyone else and now she was worth less than nothing as she was disabled. Nothing must be something if there was something less than nothing, I thought in that brief moment. Yes, moments can be incredibly brief and unbearably long sometimes.

 

“Do you remember how we had everything once…youth, health, determination, time, strength, yet… yet we did not appreciate them…maybe we did not know how to… or maybe we were too young and arrogant to do so…yes we wanted to be loved without being able to give love…we wanted money….we wanted to succeed something big…become someone bigger than anyone on the face of earth…yet we were put in invisible little prisons separate from one another…unable to hear…unable to see…unable to understand one another…yet we were told how free we were in those invisible little prisons…and that was the reason why we were unable to love…no matter what we had did not seem to be enough…and we were never good enough to our imprisoners…and how we hated each other…and how we hated ourselves, do you remember now,” I asked without uttering a word the best of which was surely going to hurt.

 

“I still panic when I cross the road,” she then said.

“Yes, that is because you had the accident while crossing the road, that will stop,” I said but I knew it was not that easy. We, humans, had hearts which had nothing to do with reason. Reason could explain why we had pain, how it occurred but it would never care how it hurt. It could cure it with some medicines, it could even numb where it hurt but it would never care what every pain left behind. Reason was dry, so was I. And I knew she did not like my reply. She did not know how upset and how angry I was.

 

“Is your father still alive,” I asked.

“He was, I heard,” said she. That was when we felt hell of anger and resentment but no word. That was when we felt the sharpest knife of our lives stabbed in our hearts but had nothing apart from watching how we were losing blood.

 

“It is okay,” said she, remembering the day she had had the accident and how her father pushed her in front of a bus which crashed her to the pieces. I knew it was not okay, she knew that, too.

 

“There is nothing we can do, just forget all about it,” said she. She said that despite her broken leg. I knew that she did remember him every time she took another step. She sounded like she had learnt how to appreciate what she had, including her bad and a little mad dad.

 

“He is not bad, he is just an angry dad who has never been hugged or loved and whose anger was the way he begged for help to get out of his loveless hell,” our hearts whispered to each other. And we stopped texting to each other. I sent her a picture of the sea I saw from my balcony.

 

“Come and enjoy the sea one day…at least we can have one nice sisterly memory to remember…it might make us forget the bad ones maybe,” I texted while the sun was leaving with a hope of another tomorrow.

 

She did not reply.

 

 

 

 

 

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What a Fatherless World

Posted: September 3, 2017 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , ,

It is the night before Eid. People post about it, talk about it, how it brings solidarity or how it should bring etc… aaand there is this song sang by two girls in Brussel as part of International Festival of Language and Culture’ 2017 festival.

 

Ben yoruldum hayat gelme üstüme,

Diz çöktüm dünyanın namert yüzüne,

Gözümden gönlümden düşen düşene,

Bu öksüz başıma göz dağı verme.

 

Je suis épuisé la vie, ne viens pas sur moi,

Je me suis agenouillé face à ce monde lâche,

Dans mes yeux, dans mon cœur tombé tombant,

N’intimide pas mon innocence.

 

It hurts yet something forces me to listen again and I do…it hurts again and I promise myself not to listen to it again and it ends…a brief release and I struggle with myself in seven long seconds…once more, once more, begs me my inner voice and I hit the play button once more…I listen it hurts a little deeper especially when the black girl sings it so soulfully and so painfully…her heart cries and I hear…and it finishes…okay I say this is it…I must cheer up it is the Eid night…but the black girl still cries in my heart and I feel urge the urge of sharing the song and I do…I send it to someone who hides his heart and plays smart…and he is too far from where I am…and the song travels to Switzerland in matter of seconds through whatsapp…and there is this painful silence which dies to bring back the song to my mind and it does…and I start listening to it again…wait impatiently for the black girl to cry her heart out and touch mine and she does…but something is different this time…I begin listening to it through the ear and heart of my friend and imagine whether he would feel the soul of the song like I do or not…since it is after midnight I get no reply from him…maybe tomorrow I say as the song ends…

 

I see the piece of paper my neighbour sent me the other day when my stomach refused to take all that nonsense which my mind accepted to tolerate. It aggressively forced me to throw out everything even a glass of water not only through my mouth but also my nose for two long days…yes I knew that it was a psychosomatic reaction and I did not want to remember it, but this piece of paper and the number on it…it came from the man with a white hat…he wanted to help…and I have not called or texted him yet…

 

I hold it, register it on my phone…and then he appears on the screen and I hear the black girl again…and the last expression on the face of my friend who had to go to Switzerland…the man with white, the black girl and my friend…they all become a part of the same story in that song and I listen to it again.

fatherless girl

 

Ben yanıldım hayat vurma yüzüme

Yol verdim sevdanın en delisine,

O yüzden ömrümden giden gidene,

Şu yalnız başımı eğdirme benim.

 

J’avais tort la vie, ne le jette pas contre moi

J’ai donné chemin à l’amour le plus fou,

C’est pourquoi de ma vie parti partant,

Ne me fais pas baisser la tête.

Loss…defeat…regret…loneliness…humanness…and life…the song is about everything that is painful about being a human…and that hurts human beings. I decide to call him in the morning and I sleep with the voice of the black girl echoing in my heart…

 

I wake up and it is Eid. I greet the sun with grace before my mind turns itself on and continues from where I left it last night. I drink water and put the kettle on to make a cup of coffee. I drink it as I design a post for the quote of the day…if the projection is true, I say and stop…then why do people happily own compliments and personalize them so quickly, I ask…will anyone reply…I don’t really care, I let them project and I project…

 

I text to the man with a white hat to say how kind of him to send his number upon hearing my gastroenterological ordeal which was actually psychosomatic explosion of my whole year.He immediately texts back to say how nice it is to hear from me on a beautiful Eid day. He sounds desperately lonely and hungry for sincere human connection.I can hear screams of his heart in his messages…he almost sounds like the black girl in that song and I cannot bear anymore…I invite him to my place…I ask him to share half of the first day of the Eid with me…and he happily and expectedly accepts it.

 

I have a look at my novel’s murder scene again…It is good but my hero still seems passive…I wonder how I managed to make the villain look like a hero…my friend texts back from Switzerland and celebrates my Eid. He does not sound like so cold but still distant…I know he did not feel the song…how could he…he is too lucky to have an empathy for someone’s loss or defeat…so I stop listening to the song through his ears and heart yet he is still attached to it but not to voice of the black girl this time…he is attached to the cold girl with little or no wound in her soul who sings with the black girl. I look out of the window…it is a sunny yet cool day…I feel ready to walk out of my home and I do…

 

I want to buy a really good desert for the man with white hat and I do…I feel the peace and joy everywhere I look somehow…strange I say to myself…why do I feel so happy…because of the man with white hat…what is so special about him for God’s sake…how and when did I put him in such a great place…yes I did see him many times, he just lives in the opposite block on the floor five…he looked broken, kind, reserved and strong despite his old age and that is fine…but that cannot be the reason why I almost feel thrilled, I say to myself as I walk around the shopping mall. I buy him a big cup that is as white as his hat and many other things to eat for a week…I return home, put everything in the fridge, tidy the house like I have never done before…no I don’t worry about what he would think about me or my house but I still want him to be comfortable. And he knocks the door all in whites.

 

He is wearing white t-shirt, white trousers but not white hat to my surprise this time. He walks in with a big smile. He is wearing big black rimmed glasses and he has a beard in French style just like the little blue scarf around his olive skinned old neck. It matches with is blue sandals and I like it. He kisses me and it does not feel strange straight after walking in.

 

“Hey, so nice to see you,” I say after feeling his soul and smile. I know he is as excited as me but of course I don’t know his reason just like I don’t know mine. I offer him a place to sit and he sits on the white sofa. He has a small plastic bag in his hand. He opens it and takes out a packet of white chocolate…I don’t like white chocolate but I pretend to love it and thank him in the sincerest tone of my voice…and I smile. He smiles back and I can see he also studies me behind his big glasses. I can hear voice of the black girl echoing in my heart again but I try to ignore her.

 

“What would you like to drink,” I ask him. He takes a tiny little jar out of his small bag this time and holds it in the air.

 

“This is the tea I always drink, it is combination of many herbs,” says he and hands it to me. I find it rude but I still smile as I walk towards the kitchen.

 

I put the kettle on and walk back to him. I sit next to him, I cannot sense any sign of danger or he hides it well, I am not so sure. He has so many lines around his small eyes which happily smile despite his pain that speaks to mine.

 

“I had a major operation two weeks ago,” says he and looks at me. I know he needed compassion two weeks ago and I know he still needs it… and I give him with no word.

 

“My doctor friend told me not to have it due to high risk of death but I had it,” says he and smiles again. “Actually I unpacked my hospital bag when he said the night before the operation but I re-packed it in the morning and went to the hospital,” said he and stops.

 

“I wish I knew you back then…I would have go with you…stayed with you in the hospital,” I say. He looks at me…he feels my heart but cannot speak.

 

“It is okay…I said to doctors before the operation that they should kill me if they know that they disabled me somehow…because they said that there was a high risk of losing my legs if I survived,” he says and smiles again. I can see he still cannot believe that he is alive.

 

“Unbelievable, isn’t it,” I ask. He laughs.

“Yes…was unable to sleep, my leg was always in pain…now I sleep and wake up…nothing happens and I laugh…I sleep again to see what happens…nothing happens and I laugh…I laugh nonstop,” says he and laughs.

 

I go to kitchen and bring him his tea with the desert I bought for him specifically. He likes the fact that I have made some preparation for him. He takes it, I bring my plate of desert and tea and sit next to him. Strange I am wearing white shirt, too, I realize suddenly.

 

“I stayed in Switzerland for thirty-seven years,” he says as he feels close to death. I wonder what really brought him back to such a chaotic country like this one but I don’t ask not to hurt him. I know how it feels to hear that question.

 

“Yes, I met many people who divorced their partners for no reason but just to go back to where they were born and die there,” I say instead but I realize that that was even worse than an offense. But he jumps to that and agrees with me. I become unsure of his honesty. I begin to believe that there is certainly another reason but let him continue…

 

He checks his phone and says:

“My son from Switzerland…he celebrates my Eid.” And he shows his picture. I don’t tell him that I know him, I tell him how handsome his son is instead. And his picture appears in my mind, my heart gets warm in the sweetest way after seeing his breath taking, sublime God given look. And I resent God for not giving the same beauty everyone equally. His father hears my heart and explains. He tells me about his son. How handsome, how fortunate, how free yet how idiot he is. He tells me how he was fined because of raping two girls in one night.

 

“Well he is lucky that he was not jailed,” I say from the standpoint of a man as I have no choice other than that.

 

“Yes…but he had to pay one hundred thousand dollars not to be jailed,” he says. I begin to see why he did not listen to the song I sent him.

 

“God,” I quietly exclaim instead.

 

“I mean he did not force those girls to go to his house, they went because they wanted to,” says he. Well they must have thought that your son was a decent man not a rapist, I thin and what kind of decent man can pull two girls from the bar and sleep with them in the same bed, asks my mind until I utter a word as a response.

 

“Hmm,” I say and try to understand whether he is also a rapist like his son. Was it his dark side that made me curious about him, I wonder as he says:

 

Well…anyway…even that did not stop him tiny bit…he would sleep with 24 girls in 24 hours if he could…he is addicted to women.”

 

“Or sex,” I say.

 

“Both,” he replies but I can see how much he loves his son despite all that as he tells all that with pride in a playful manner. And I understand that he is not really fully matured man despite his old age. That does not surprise me at all…power of manhood corrupts little men and that is okay, I say to myself as I ache in silence again.

 

He shows me his daughter’s picture and his grandkids without any strong sign of emotional connection.

 

“Your wife must be very beautiful,” I say as all his kids are amazingly beautiful and his grandkids.

 

“She was and she was a very good woman but she died,” says he and I know he lies. Only a month ago, his son told me that she was alive. And I wonder what kind of hell I have inside to be curious about such a man with white hat.

 

“Oh I am sorry to hear that,” I say to make him believe that I am some kind of idiot. He relaxes and talks about his job, his ex-lovers and how finds it hard to live here sometimes. I listen and it gets dark outside. I turn the lights on although I love it a little dark. He jumps and says he loves it dark, too but I am no longer sure whether that could be true. He says how much he enjoyed his time with me and cannot go back his lonely home.

 

“It is okay, you don’t have to go just now,” I say as I draw the curtains with the same painful notes in my ears. He stays, despite finding it hard to sit due to his recent disk operation. He has something more to say, I know. He is in pain to say it.

 

“I am actually looking for a woman to share rest of my life with,” says he.

“I am sure you will eventually find one,” I say to him. He looks upset but he hides it. He wished to bring his youth back first and then he made himself believe that he could still try his luck but maybe not so soon, I hear his internal dialogue.

 

He stands up.

 

“I think I better go now,” says he.

“As you wish…thanks for coming,” I say and stand up, too.

He hugs me this time, his expectations look more alive in his eyes. I close the door after he walks out. I look at where he sat, I feel what he has left behind. I feel sad. And I wonder why I wanted to meet him so much. I resent life for not giving me a father like the man with white hat who loved even crimes of his son.

 

I open the window to let what he has left behind out. And I play the same song…the black girl cries I cry…she sings and cries…I listen and cry…what a fatherless world, I whisper as the man with white hat appears in the garden and his lucky son in my mind…

 

Ben pişmanım hayat sorguya çekme,

Dilersen infaz et kar etmez dilime,

Sözlerim ağırdır dokunur kalbe,

Şu suskun ağzımı açtırma benim.

 

e regrette la vie, ne m’interroge pas

Exécute si tu le souhaites, mais je ne dirai rien

Tes mots sont blessants, ça touche le cœur

Ne fais pas parler cette bouche silencieuse

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night Verses

Posted: September 1, 2017 in Uncategorized

Hello everyone, here are the verses of all of us…

One day you will hear my voice Amongst all the endless noise I will then know for sure That your tears fell on my words I broke all your walls To make my heart yours My words your own To

Have a wonderful weekend…

A Coward Cop

Posted: August 31, 2017 in Uncategorized

Have you ever met a coward police man? Well I have…

I happened to call police station very often ever since I moved to this apartment where everyone’s head is between their legs. Yes, that is right. That is what happens when a quasi- Islamic country tries to westernize itself. First freedom they want to have is to freedom of sex. Well if they had a little brain they could have seen how Mohammed had that before, during and after Islam while prohibiting it for others. I guess he was good at legitimizing it…yes that is right he tried to protect all those little women from the war which he started to spread his own thoughts and beliefs.

 

I said to police my neighbour is fucking loudly, he said so what, we cannot do anything about it, it is her privacy. I said no, she is doing it deliberately because her psychopath partner screams like a lion, too. I can tell they do that to harass me.

“Well, you have to deal with it, we cannot do anything about it, it is their bedroom, it is their privacy,” said he.

I said her privacy cannot fuck mine…that is how we define freedom and draw the line between everyone. He said, just go and sleep somewhere far from where they moan and shout. I said there is not much room to go far and the walls are too thin. He said he could not do anything apart from advising me to move out. I hung up swearing.

One day when they least expected I decided to fuck their peace of mind. I turned on the TV at 6 o’clock in the morning. And the next morning and the day after next…they started to think that I was mad and they moved out.

police man

 

And one day I called the police again. The same police man answered, I felt sick before I started.

I said my other neighbour knocked on my door with a glass of whiskey last night and tried to walk in without my permission.

“Why did he do that to you but not to other neighbours, ask yourself,” said the police with his little mouldy brain.

He said he had fallen in love with me, I replied. “You must have done something to make him fall in love with you then,” he said.

“Well, I did not walk around naked as far as I know,” I said and asked: “Isn’t that a crime?”

“It is but there is hardly any punishment…did he hit you, no, did he stab you, no, did he point a gun at your throats and asked you to love him back, no…so you will never get anything even from the best judge,” said he.

“How interesting,” I said and hung up.

 

And just yesterday I called the police station again. Of course he answered.

I said, last night someone called me just after midnight, he claimed that I was such a psychopath just because I did not call him for months and months.

“And what?” he asked.

“Is that a crime,” I asked. He laughed.

“Why would it be a crime?” he then asked.

“It disturbed my peace…I have been contemplating who is right…is it me, you or him,” I replied. He laughed and said:

“I, too, am in love!”

“With a psychopath?” I asked.

“No, with you,” he replied.

“Cool, what did I do to make you fall in love then,” I asked at his surprise.

“You kept calling me for little things,” said he.

“Little things….well they were not little things,” I replied.

“They were,” said he.

“Then deal with it coward…I don’t care about how badly you have fallen in love…it is just a little thing,” I said and hung up.

 

 

 


It is red hot outside and cicadas are singing …or are they screaming, I am not quite sure but I can feel the joy in their tone. There is a middle aged couple in the pool trying to challenge time but I can see the pain in their love…Children laugh with fear of their dependency in the corner of their eyes with the most beautiful sparks…I look at the immortal mountains and walk back inside…

I always write at the table,I don’t want to do that anymore. So I am sitting under the table on the hard floor and typing. No I am not trying to be different or crazy.I am fucking bored…no maybe not bored but maybe a little tired…no,maybe not even tired but sick…sick? No, maybe not even sick but all of it…tired of chasing love and end up with disappointment…bored of hearing the same talk everywhere I walk…sick of games little creatures play to feel superior to each other…tired of the hot weather that makes me sleepy in the climax of my dialogue with the Infinite Consciousness…I mean I hate it when I find myself hugging an angel as soon as I close my eyes while trying to go beyond consciousness and wake up screaming as she turns into a murderer. I constantly feel betrayed these days…yes, that is it…I feel betrayed…

fire of life

No, I am not yet enlightened, I know that. They say if you think you are enlightened go and spend a week with your parents. I cannot stand to hear my mum’s voice even over the phone. Yes I have forgiven her but what she did to me still hurts…it hurts no matter how much I grow…Well, anyway, let’s forget about that…God must have chosen the wrong angel for me when I arrived in the world…maybe it is too soon to say that because I am not in the end yet…but I am ready…cause I never hurt anyone unless I had to take revenge…yes, that is the only feeling I cannot resist…God how will I learn that?

I have been burning with the desire to sing Adele’s song as fiery as her ever since I heard it without knowing why. Here are the lyrics:

“There is a fire starting in my heart,

Reaching a fever pitch,

It is bringing me out the dark,

Finally I can see you crystal clear

Go ahead and sell me out

And I’ll lay your shit bare.”

Now I know why the song has been burning me every time its notes reached my ears. It is about everything I have been feeling about life and love…it is about disappointment of love, betrayal and revenge…obviously an angel has turned into to a bloody murderer in her life, too. She is bleeding…but still there is a joy in that… I can feel it. Joy of expressing her heart, joy of making art…even cicadas want that, too. They scream all day long…maybe they don’t make art but they are the art…but if they have heart they have fire…so they have to express their fire…fire of being…fire of love…fire of life…they have to tell us how it feels to burn…

 

 

 

 


Story of a Good Rat

Someone knocked at my door a day after the big confrontation by the pool. It was a soft knock but not hesitant. I knew there was a woman behind the door but I still looked through the eye hole. It was her, standing there with her thoughtful even worried eyes which have almost lost their sparks. She was known as a rat, rat Rezzan, in the neighbourhood but I did not believe that. So I opened the door with a big sincere smile.

She was so thin as if she had just escaped from a famine. It hurt me to look at her, I was overwhelmed by the river of my own compassion. There was an untold tragedy standing by me, all my cells could sense that. She smiled in her red shorts and white t-shirt. Her arms were thin and had scars of hard work…hard work that had lasted too long. Her legs were thin, too.

“Please sit,” I said and showed her the creamy white sofa in the living room and asked: “What would you like to drink?”

She smiled and looked into my eyes that were searching warmth and understanding in mine. She wanted to know how welcomed she was and I smiled wider to let her know that she was very very welcome like she was never before.

“Thank you very much, I really don’t want to drink anything. I have come to talk,” said she as she walked towards the creamy white sofa. She sat and crossed her legs, she was not more than forty five kilogram. I sat next to her.

goodnees

“I was having a breakfast but I could not,” said she and she looked concerned.

“Why?” I asked.

“I thought I had to tell you not to worry if two women from last night knock on your door in this morning,” she replied.

“Why do they want to do that? I told them all I knew about him…it is their job to think how he could harm them,” I said.

“No, no…it is not like that…this is  now matter of life and death…none of us slept after you had left last night…everybody was so devastated…they all feel unsafe now.Did you think that was the end?”

“Yes, was it not?”

“No, it was the beginning…that man is going to have to leave this place…people will not stop until they discover the whole truth,” said she.

“I told the truth,” I replied.

“No…they know you know more,” said she.

“No, I don’t…I told them what I knew,” I said.

“They want to know more!” said she as she opened her eyes wide and stood up.

“Well, I don’t know more,” said I and stood up, catching a little bit of her panic.

“They think you know…tell them what you know…there is no way back…everything changed when you talked last night,” said she and walked towards the door in a secretive manner.

“I see,” said I and walked her to the door.

“I must go, don’t be surprised when they come…and they are not bad people…they all have your back…they don’t want anyone bad to live in this neighbourhood…he has to go to hell, that man- heartless paedophile,” whispered she, holding the door handle, her eyes hardly contained her inner turmoil and her little body.

“Okay, thank you,” said I in the same secretive manner. Well I was already surprised, asking myself whether she did not want to let those women to taste sweetness of surprising even shocking me by their visit but she wanted to do it instead or whether she came here just because she could not help being a rat. I was confused but I knew she was not a bad rat, she, too, was a soldier of goodness on earth.

“I am going now, take care…yeah?” said she and walked out softly. She climbed down the purple stairs quietly, looked back and smiled once again before she disappeared. I waved at her, wondering what kind of hell’s door I had opened last night.

I closed the door, wondering what I was going to hear from the other two women who had attacked me the night before. I could hear bells of my stomach, my head was like an ant nest where billions of ants lived with no rest and it was hard for me to keep my eyes open. My phone rang. I walked towards the table and looked. It was my ex next door whom I never talked to due to an unbridgeable gap between us. I had blocked her number straight after we met for the first time but it seemed like what I knew had made her restless, too…just like the ants in my head. I employed one of the ants in my head to talk to her before picking my phone. It was a collective issue after all…and it was not her, she did not dare talk.

Two women came following that phone call and went with no event despite the great disappointment of their discovery. They looked more shocked than they did the night before. And they did not blame me for telling the truth but they were still not sure what to do about him, woman hater paedophile whom they used to respect and sought comfort like their granddad. What they were going to do was going to determine my location and reputation, too. It was a risk that I took but I was never going to regret it. The bigger risk was to become a close friend with such a man in order to discover the truth. The biggest risk was to allow him to think and believe that one day he was going to be in my bed despite his psychopathic traits and old age. Men are mad like that. They really believe that they can do anything they want in life, the world is their playground. Hence hardly a few of them truly grow up. Everyone was learning a lot from what happened and was going to learn more what was going to happen.

Rezzan came back again next morning.

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” said she. I told you she was a good rat. She was wearing a green t-shirt. Her short, thick, curly hair had some grey in the front.

“No, not really,” I replied, thinking about the real reason of her regular morning visits.

“You should have seen how men reacted…they all met again last night…they will kick this paedophile bastard out of this place by law…you will see they will do that. This is not a joke…this is our honour…he has to go,” said she as she walked towards the creamy white sofa before I offered. I was a little surprised to see how deeply they believed what I said without knowing me so well. I hardly communicated with them but I always wished them well.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed quietly. Only psychopaths could exclaim loudly in this place. The walls were too thin to give anyone sense of a proper privacy. We had so many issues that violated our privacy and reported it to young rich landlord who listened to us insensibly and probably laughed out loud after hanging up the phone.

“Yes, I think they were already suspicious of him somehow but they just could not put their finger on it,” said she in her own secretive way when I sat next to her on creamy white sofa.

“Of course they were…how couldn’t they be? This man was always drunk…the only reason why people kept quiet was because of his age,his money…and-and he was so good at lying…and he bullied the weak ones when they did not believe him…and I think people needed someone to care for them, someone older with wisdom and compassion…he pretended to have and offered them to women to make his way to their beds,”

“Once, he shouted at me like a little child and said: ‘You are a tenant here, you don’t even own an inch of a land, know your place and keep quiet!’” she explained, her lips trembled and she was in tears. I wanted to see that old paedophile hanged or drowned in the middle of the pool where he had secret orgasms by watching little girls and women in their bikinis, took their pictures, as her tears rolled down on her bony cheeks covered with dry and wrinkled thin skin. She was a forty-nine years old divorcee with no kid of her own. And he knew that…but that was before I exposed him. All his fantasies to have a young lover like me while harassing every other woman and little girls as an old, respectable superintendent of two blocks of apartment, all his power over people, all the joy he used to get from abusing the house keeping staff died in one night. I felt proud of myself for the first time after that night.

“So nobody stood by you back then?” I asked.

“No, they uttered no word…I know why they did that…they did that because I am a woman who does not depend on a man…and a woman with no man worth nothing in their heads,” said she.

“It must be so dark in their heads,” I said.

“It is dark everywhere in this land…the Sun comes and goes but it is still dark here,” said Rezzan in tears. I knew she was a good rat in search of love…

 

 

 

 

 


Dawn is breaking here. Here where I still feel like an outsider. Hence I am never here. Where am I? Sometimes sitting right beside you watching you waking up next to someone else, loving your dreams in her, loving yourself in her, searching deeper meaning of life in your togetherness…but why is there still shadow of worry in the corner of your blue eyes, I whisper in your ears. You walk to bathroom and look into mirror.

“Everything is fine,” you say to the man in the mirror, trying to avoid his fears and invisible tears. You walk into the little cubicle to have a shower. Water cools you and I touch you softly with my deepest love.

“God, water is the best miracle,” you say as you walk out without seeing me there.

love letter

You feel nervous all of a sudden as you dry your body because you remember that you left your mobile in the bedroom. Do you cheat on her…yes you do…some part of you is still not satisfied…I wonder what can fill that void of yours because I know it is not who…no one can handle that task. You go out and take your phone without disturbing her. You wonder whether she checked your phone and you look at her with a subtle anger…you know it is not her it is you…you are angry with yourself but you never admit that. You dress up, wear your perfume…everything looks perfect on you until you push them all into the shadow of your pride.

She wakes up, you wear your manly smile that is broken with your pride. You don’t want her to know what power she has over you…you don’t want her to know that she has something you desperately need…you keep telling her “I love you darling,” but she knows how much you mean it and how much you don’t. She smiles and gets out of bed. And this invisible distance becomes apparent to her all of a sudden…you cause it to expand…she feels it but she lies to herself as it confuses her. Why do you still do that to women who come to you wholeheartedly…are you scared of being left alone again…don’t be…not everyone is a mad truth seeker like me…not everyone is in existential crisis like I was when I was with you…not everyone is crushed by dishonesty early in life like and developed some trust issue I had…yes I did not tell you about it, did I…because you assumed that I had never had a wound in my entire life…you never asked…you either could not stand to see me bleeding in words or maybe you really did not care…or maybe all you cared about was to have a beautiful and smart woman standing next to you…you were so excited to impregnate me…lock me in your house with your kids thinking that that was what I really wanted…but it was not…I did not come to this world to bear your kids and spend rest of my life bringing them up just to be rarely appreciated…I have learnt how to appreciate myself, thank you very much…no that was not the life I had in my mind but you never asked…your dream was supposed to be mine…and I was gone while still standing there, staring at you.

love letter

 

“Love you, too,” says she shallowly as you walk down on the stairs. She does not walk you to the door. You secretly resent but don’t tell a word…why would you…that would be too weak…you walk out leaving so many tests for her to reveal her real self…you did that for me , too…I mean what the heck was that for…why did you not talk…did you think everyone was a liar like you were…yes that was it, wasn’t it…but every test you left behind was a proof of who you actually were…don’t do that to her…she might walk away, too, one day.

You get in your car and drive…I am sitting next to you…you vaguely see a butterfly on your left side…you look for no apparent reason and see the empty seat in the middle of enjoying infinite freedom roads generate within you like they used to do…you cannot see anything but you hear a vague voice and look again…you feel drawn and you eventually touch the seat…

buuterfly

“Bloody weird,” you say to yourself and turn up the music. I can fuck your morning joy, making you feel even weirder but I don’t because I still love you…and my love does not dictate you to lead your life in my way…it has never done that to any man I liked…I say l liked because you were the only man who I loved and you still are…I send you love and hold on to my dreams not yours…I send you love and I will always do while pursuing my dreams…while you bringing up your kids…sorry I could not make you one because I could not be cruel enough to push a child into this world just to see how it feels to be a mother…I am working to save them all instead…I do not wish to be the mother of one but of all children on earth…I am working to show them the light…