Posts Tagged ‘God’


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…

 

 

 

 


The Orchids’ Prayer

No it was not love…he knew it was not…she could feel it was not but wanted to believe that it was…at least for a little while…she looked strong like an oak but she was an orchid on the inside…yes that is right she was fragile…the world was cruel…she was fragile…the world was cruel…she was fragile…the world was cruel…and she was stubbornly fragile…to believe in love…it made him feel weak to love someone who was not strong enough to survive without his love…she was too fine not to see that in his eyes…which lied…which lied… he felt smart as he lied…he felt more manly as he lied…he thought he could conquer her world…he thought he could destroy her with his lies…but some part of his cried inside…some of part his died…she was too fragile to fight…too divine to let him drown…no it was still not yet love…she still smiled…stood like an oak…but still fragile inside…

orchid

Yes it was a defeat…how could he have accepted it…the world was cruel…he was brutal…how could he have accepted it…it was an oak he had destroyed…it was an orchid he had drowned…how could he have accepted it…the world was cruel…he was brutal…but still beaten…still defeated…how could he have accepted it…he was ashamed…filled with guilt and disappointment…no oak…no divine look…no weak orchid…but disappointment…guilt…defeat…laughter of his demons…how could he have accepted it…he stood on the top of his roof…to destroy the defeated brute…he looked at the Moon…he looked at it again…he was ashamed…orchid was there…he heard her prayer…love he said…how weak…how blind…how dark…how ignorant I was he said…orchid cried with grace….she prayed…he looked at the roof…he looked the brute who stood on the roof…he looked at the Moon…Orchid prayed…she still loved him with grace…he could not forgive the brute…and he pushed him…God, said he as he began to fall…Love said he as he continued to fall…Light whispered he when he lay on the ground…Orchid prayed…people learned to love the brute in the Moonlight…Orchid prayed…people prayed…They smelled orchids…

“Orchids,” they said and the Orchids prayed.
“Grace,” they embraced and the Orchids smiled.
“Love the brute,” Orchids whispered and people smiled. Tears dried…


It is 5 minutes to midnight now. I was in my bed, trying to sleep only if I could stop hearing screams of the Judge who was angry and awake in my head.

“No, no…that is not porn…it is not pornographic at all…something isn’t quite right!” No, it is not matter of right and wrong but what is it that is burning my gut in the middle of the night?

“So what is porn Uncle Google,” I asked when I sat at my desk, millions of bugs in my mind, the Judge still staring at me in its back yard.

“Pornography is the portrayal of  sexual subject matter for the purpose of sexual arousal,” answered Wikipedia.

“What does the girl in this image do to cause sexual arousal?” asked the Judge with no gender.

bacak aramda

“Nothing, she seems to have been undressed forcefully…which is why she is looking down with shame,” I replied.

“Exactly! What kind of soul can get sexual arousal from such image?” asked the Judge.

“Oh God!” I exclaimed. The Genderless Judge looked happy…no not because s(he) made me feel sick but s(he) managed to teach.

“Have another close look,” said the genderless judge. And I looked at the image below which was the book cover of my first poetry book.

“Yeah…I mean she is not human is she…she is a robot…and made by a man,” I whispered to myself and looked back at The Genderless Judge.

The Genderless Judge smiled and disappeared.

Now I am asking you, was The Genderless Judge right?

Should I create another cover or should I insist on using this one?

I am going to bed now.

By the way, the content of the book is nowhere near pornography…it is all about gender war…

I am going to talk to the stars in the balcony for a few minutes just to miss my warm bed…otherwise I won’t be able to sleep…unless they say something to oppose The Genderless Judge…Oh God!


Writing is Joyfully Painful

Write…you should write about that girl…isn’t that such a touching scene…how could he do that to me…Oh God! That hurt…still hurts…fuck him…fuck that and everything…cry…cry until your heart stops aching because your head takes it over… close your curtain write about that too…sit there until your but feels like a stone…write how many killed…how many wounded…how many orphaned in your heart’s battlefield…rescue the good…punish the bad…show the truth…kill the devil…let the love win…let the justice prevail…let the one who had faith from the very beginning smile and walk away…yes it is dark…but who cares…what goes on outside should be corrected here inside…whatever went on, too…open the curtain for a while…see the Sun saying goodbye in colors…feel blessed…you are calm but not quite right…not completely…

Call someone…hear a human voice to heal your soul…o how beautiful…how miraculous they are…hear them swear…hear them smile…hear them cry…that is the life…that is how we know God…that is how we love…and close your eyes…let the stars whisper in your ears…let them come to your dreams…let them plant your next move in your heart…let them bring storms, snows into your life…let them make things fall apart…let them whisper you in the middle of the war that you are fine…you will always be fine…let the angels wake you up in the middle of the night…or before the dawn…be quiet and listen…they want to tell you something…something to mix with your ink…listen…and then you can go back to sleep again…

typewriterthe-bloody-foreigner-campaign-01-1

Wake up…feel guilty if you miss the sunrise…feel blessed if you don’t… say hi…hi our beautiful sun…I love you so much and leave her for a short while…close your curtain and write…yes you have lost your appetite ever since that scene got stuck in your mind…hurt your heart and made you cry…you did not even know why…why you cried…but when you sat at your desk and began to type…you realized…why you cried in the dark that night…laugh out loud in the middle of the fight…life is not that cruel…you should not be either to your readers…they love, they long for a small sweet surprise…smile at them between your lines…just like how God does to us in between day and night…

And the last chapter…you struggle…not because you don’t know what to write…but you don’t want say goodbye…you don’t want to leave your characters…you don’t want to leave your readers…you don’t sit at your desk for a day and another day…but you don’t enjoy anything when you are away…so you eventually come back…sit at your desk…and say goodbye…o how hard it is to put the last full stop of the last page…you look at the page; you are excited…upset…happy and sad…but you do put the last full stop…”are you sure you don’t want to put a comma,” asks your heart…you smile and feel amazed…you remember the last mad two months you spent at your desk…and you smile again…

A day goes by…you are in pain again…you are restless again…you miss your desk and new characters are already writing themselves up there at your desk…you stop walking by the beach unexpectedly and come back to them…That is how joyfully painful writing is…That is how joyfully painful writing is only if you are a true author…

Here are two books I have written joyfully and painfully. You might have already read “The Little Virgin Whore” and discovered who you truly are by conquering another woman’s life. If you have not then this is the time because you will get “The Bloody Foreigner” for free when you buy “The Little Virgin Whore.”

They are available on Amazon,Apple, Barnes&Nobles.Grab them now!

 


And a Philosopher Goes to a Whore

philosopher and a whore

Endless arguments through which men seemed to be searching the truth had finally tired him in one of the cold British evening in December. It was almost the end of the year and he was melancholic once again.

“It is all nonsense; constant classification, definitions, explanations, all nonsense!” he heard his wife again.

“All you do is to divide people, things, thoughts and censor their emotions! If religions stand between God and humans; you, philosophers, stand between every living being like an invisible membrane to separate them from one another!” shouted she with anger when he returned home after midnight exactly this time last year.

“Not only that! You stand even between them and their real selves! Who do you think you are?” she shouted again appearing in the window of the bar. And he went pink, sitting in the corner of a bar, breathing the noisy and smelly air. He gulped down his fourth pint and sighed bur she continued:

“I read your work and your friends’, no matter how intellectual how smart how superior you think you all think you are, you are still unable to think without your penises, in fact you think in the shadow of your little penises and write with your penises!”

And he finally punched her in the face.

“Just say it, if you don’t love me anymore, say it, stop behaving like a whore!” he shouted. It began snowing outside, just like it did when he had left her bleeding and unconscious on the floor that night.

“I cannot love you when I know what you really do to humans and our humanity!” she barely said when he stormed out, slamming the door.

“That was not rational, was it?” asked his ideal philosopher self on his way, walking at dark snowy night.

“I know but what she said was not acceptable!” he replied.

“You could have explained it to her, you live for explanations remember!” reminded his ideal self.

“Yes but I was horny! I was defeated in an argument and needed a relief!” he finally confessed.

“So she was right then?” boldly asked his ideal self as he turned to the red light district that night.

“I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher,” he murmured and gulped down another big pint.

Hello everyone! You have just read the fist half of the sixth story. Join the Magic Book Writing Project now to discover, improve and sharpen your creativity.


 

psychosisMagic Book Writing Project

3:57 Psychosis

3:57! Are you not coming? Come on, jump in! Or we will be going! This is the only 3:57 Train!

Wake up! I woke up! Look around! I looked around! What is the time? 3:57. Get up! I got up! Someone died! Who? You don’t know? No! Then why did you wake up! I don’t know; I just did.

“I am bored and dissatisfied with everything”

Yes, I remember she said that, but I was not there. I did not even know her!

“I am a complete failure as a person I am guilty”

Yes, she said that, too! Oh God!

“I am being punished I would like to kill myself”

Oh no!

“I used to be able to cry but now I am beyond tears

“Yes, but what do you want me to do? She is not here!

“I have lost interest in other people I can’t make decisions”

I wish I was there.

“I can’t eat”

God!

“I can’t sleep”

“I can’t think”

“I cannot overcome my loneliness, my fear, my disgust”

“I am fat”

“I cannot write”

“I cannot love”

“My brother is dying, my lover is dying, I am killing them both”

“I am charging towards my death”

“I am terrified of medication”

“I cannot make love”

“I cannot fuck”

“I cannot be alone”

“I cannot be with others”

“My hips are too big”

Stop it! Stop it! Do not repeat! That was a psychosis! It was a fucking psychosis! Do not repeat it! She could have lived!

Why? Are you scared? No! Then what? Nothing! I knew I was not supposed to go see that scene! I knew! Why, what happened? That’s I don’t know! I have been hearing that train since then! What train! 3:57 Train.

You have just read the first half of the next week’s project as a part of “Magic Book Writing Project”.I dedicated this story to a great author who I had no chance to meet but whose spirit I felt through her work . Please complete it with a sensitive and tender heart.

 


good and evil 3

The doorbell rang. It was 3am. Two men broke the silence wildly on the dark streets. One kept beating a drum, the other one blew a shepherd pipe. Everyone had to wake up. They had no other choice.

My mum answered the doorbell. It was her friend who was worried that we might have failed to wake up. She also asked her whether we had managed to prepare food. My mum was always fine when it came to food. That was her main worry after being alive; how couldn’t she be? I looked out the window as they talked in the doorway; it was dark.

My father did not move his little finger. He wouldn’t even if he was awake in his bed. That was how spoilt men were in our town. If they were not treated like a king, they had a right to become the ugliest beast and treat everyone like their subordinates apart from other men. Being a man was a power, being a woman was not only a weakness but something to be ashamed of in our little town that was run by imams. Hence marriage was the only way for women to get rid of that shame. Looking at my mother and her wasted life; it seemed to me that it was a bigger shame to be wife of a man. She was an unknown slave. She was unable to leave her husband; she knew what could happen to a woman if she was alone in this town.

My mum prepared the food and called her husband. He woke up without any sign of appreciation. We had to wait for him before beginning to eat. How could we begin without him, that was almost like a sin. And every sin was filled with fears just like my mum. Wasn’t that a sin? Wasn’t it a sin to fear a woman like her to her core?

Her husband whose sperm I had borrowed looked at her in a way to fear her more when he sat at on his cushion on the floor where my mum placed the foods on the plated in a circle shape. People believed that we had to eat our foods on the floor because that was how Mohammed dined. We still could not have our first bite because the man who I cannot even call father was supposed to do so first.

“Allah-u Akbar!” exclaimed the imam soon after we had some food under the suffocating Godship of my mother’s husband.

“I told you to wake up earlier, you idiot woman! See there is no time to enjoy my tea now! Imam is chanting the azan already!” shouted he.

What was this hellish oppression for? I had to ask myself. He pushed my mother to please himself and went to the bathroom. He washed himself in an Islamic way. Wasn’t her soul polluted in the same way? I asked myself as he came back and began reading Quran.

I looked out the window once again. The Moon was still there in the sky spending some time with the Sun before leaving us. I watched them and I made a plan…

To read the rest of the story visit http://sefikasefika.com/en/category/blog/