Thousands of ideas in your head, flying from here and there, and it seems you do not want to bring them together much. A seagull flies past the window, even though you are very sad you cannot help smiling. The odour of the book you are reading are in your nostrils, you take a sip from your hot tea with no sugar, you become a child again, you wander the secretive labyrinths of childhood. You are near the trees that you could never climb and your cousins played games on, mulberry trees, you, you did not like mulberries much, your love was to the trees, how beautiful friends they were, they were listening to whatever you said, smiling by shaking their leaves, accepting everything you said. You raise your head from your book, your view is full of trees, all green, what beauty this is, you are surprised again, you are still surprised, this beauty on the pitiless world, full of all kinds of ugliness, another sip from your tea. Tea is such a gorgeous thing, it intoxicates you, an ecstasy that clears the mind, sharpens the senses unbelievably, gives both an everlasting joy and a strange sadness. No, no, the world is not an ugly place which is worth nothing, trees all green, sea, the wind of freedom coming from sea mixed with the wonderful odour of flowers, clouds, “the tramps of the sky”, seagulls, the tramps of the sea, if these are not miracles then what is, you can not know.
Your succulent is on the table, on the corner of your eye as you read your book, it is as if some kind of peace is directed to you from those thick, green leaves. You have bought a flower called kalanchoe, it has had so many buds, now they are blossoming, you sometimes watch how those buds turn into brilliant flowers slowly, then your lovely cat dashes, she smells the flowers with her tiny sweety nose, the flowers do not smell, but how do you know, maybe she gets the odour of them, as it is, their senses are different from ours, Selim İleri’s novel, you have recently read comes to your mind, “Epic Hearts”, “Destan Gönüller”, that sensitive boy, whose sensitivity do not lessen however old he gets, who rejects becoming an ordinary person, not because he does not want to but because he cannot become one, you think of that boy, Yusuf. “You should work on salt mines,” Turgut was saying to him. Turgut, Meliha’s ex-husband, whom he felt like loving once. Falling asleep so deeply, forgetting the self completely, after having worked and got tired, being so tired that one cannot have the strength to think. The same the next day, the day after next, on and on… A life that is not lived. What do you live? What does Yusuf live? Yusuf is right, he knows he cannot stop thinking even if he works on salt mines. A bitter smile, no, it is sweet actually, you do not want not to be thinking, neither does he. You talked to the trees because there was nobody to talk to, you still do. Yusuf was kissing the trees, his classmates were afraid of him thinking he was insane, other kids. “I am the descendant of trees”, oh Forugh, she is your poet, you have always let the wind take you, because life is full of unknown things, you cannot decide everything, the wind, blows so beautifully, from the depths, that wind smelling of iodine touches the pages of the book, the sentences become real again, Yusuf sits beside you, telling your childhood to you. Were you a happy child, what is this thing called happiness, sea still, it still tells you to wait, “wait for the wind”. Waiting, “Waiting For Godot”. As telling you to wait, the sea actually tells you to enjoy your days, your hours, to leave everything to time, the sea knows the pain in your heart, your dilemmas, that broken vastness, it says “time and the wind, you understand. How unique it is to understand and to be understood, nature, yes, here is the friend from heart. You blow the dreamy smoke, a sip from your fresh tea, you touch your basil, you smell your hand, your hand, how fascinating flowers are, they also tell you:
”Seize the day, look, we are here, we love you.”
“Love makes everything be forgiven. Nobody has loved me to that extent.” says Yusuf. Love. Do mothers love their children? Another sip from your tea. Your mother keeps telling that you drink too much tea. Mothers, what on earth do they approve of? Especially if it is about their daughters. Your eyes are filled with tears, your beautiful statuettes cross your mind, your statuettes that your mother threw away you still love a lot and even though there is not a photograph of them, you remember them so vividly. “Angels would not enter the room.” You have messed with neither the statuettes of your daughter nor her posters. She has dyed part of her hair red, it has become her so much, she can dye her hair in blue,too, nobody can say anything. Are you a good mother? You do not know, you cannot know, you just try to love, beyond that instinctual love, as you read, watch, you see new ways, you try to stand by your angels. Nobody has tried to stand by you, it has always been a mistake to be silent and shy. Yusuf nods his head, tells you how he has lived with the character of the novel, you look at him, he loves tea as well, don’t you live with the characters of novels and films, too? Cortazar gazes at both of you with his piercing eyes, his cigarette in his mouth, not caring for anything, you blow the dreamy smoke again, you wink at him, the unique master of stories. But one must not forget “Hopscotch”, the word “forget” cannot be used with that novel, no, never, it is a completely different thing, one must read and live through it, again and again. What a tremendous thing it is to go through the pages of a book you have finished! You look at the sea, how it stretches, the symbol of İstanbul, you think you have nothing to regret. “Call Me by Your Name” crosses your mind, one of the most beautiful love films you have ever watched. Elio’s father praises him for his bravery in love, he cries bitterly saying he could not be that brave. You know you have found that bravery, you have done all you could, risking suffering, being looked down on, you have suffered soooo much, lived in hell, you are still living there, maybe always will, but you have been brave, you have looked in the mirror fearlessly and smiled. The wall of ten thousand years of traditions have confronted you, you never know what else, what ideas, but no regrets, you are sad and peaceful and perhaps this is life. You go back to your book, yes, you have not read so many books for nothing, you have not watched so many films for nothing, so many exhibitions, museums, you have taken them into your life, as much as you could. You have always known that it would be sad, painful, living is being sensitive, with sorrow, the pleasure of it cannot be found elsewhere, you know it. “You understand after you are thirty that what matters is not love”, you have heard it in a film, you smile, you have always known what matters is always love, you feel it more in your depths as you grow older, you know it so well. Love, love, passion, love of life, love of nature, love, love, love of books, love, everywhere. Others do not concern you, you cannot live without love, even if it is a sad, lonely love. You meet Cortazar’s eyes, you know he approves of you, you want to smoke his cigarette, you take one more sip from your tea.
The leaves of your flower moves a little with the wind coming from the window, it is purple. You have not known that sweet basil blossoms, it has tiny, purple blossoms, they stretch their heads to sky, it is as if they close their eyes and enjoy the mild wind. It is impossible not to love them, approach and caress them, kissing mildly. You look out of your window, “Your Name is Loneliness”, the sea is so fascinating, you are filled with blue love, blue freedom. Your lovely one is also awake now, rubbing up your legs and stretching, lying in the mood of being loved, you smile and caress her softly, move your fingers through her unbelievably soft feathers, how lovingly she looks at you, licks your fingers with her sweet, pink tongue, you cherish in a rainbow of love.