.a written note.

I step outside barefoot this breezy early morning and when the breeze runs over me like some waterfall does over those stones washing away their roughness, all that covered me until now goes away somehow. Its a rainy smell. Cold and purely cold. I smell it and just as the cold floor kisses my feet, I wish to keep walking. To keep walking down the streets. Through the lanes. By the Palm trees seeming to be reaching higher and higher every time I see. The usual Blue sky covering itself with the shades of Grey that appears to me as one of the few mesmerizing things and that I secretly love, meet a shade of light lavender only to strike a chord of realization somewhere in me. Echoing that this is what it   stands for. Revolution. That this is the moment I was meant to witness after everything I stepped out of and before anything I may sneak into. The moon looks at its best showing off itself among the clear lavender sky that makes it look brightest like never before and say...

And now do I realize what they, the whispers, the sensations seem to do with me. By introducing themselves to me, suddenly disappearing yet promising to return, making me wait and then giving me hints that they're on their way to my door, they're making me vulnerable. In a way I never was before. A new vulnerability I'll live my life with henceforth. They're making me vulnerable despite knowing, given the past circumstances, that I have every reason not to be so ever again. They found their ways to me, no matter how unbelievable it seemed. They want me to listen to my inner self more than ever. They want me to stand up despite the obstacles I went through, despite the storms I'll continue to swim through. They want to see me being tough for the world is rough. Standing tough like a lighthouse. Away but still accompanying the water. Rough and tough yet having an elegance when the Sun sets and the water needs to be highlighted.

Whispers. The whispers created by the unknown, making me believe some promises aren't meant to be broken turned their arrival into an intention of disappearing a couple of nights ago. And here I am tonight. The bed I lie in makes the saudade, the longing feel less no matter how it feels really. Painful, chaotic or simply unknown. As my body hesitatingly rests on this bed, my internal self hesitates openly for the belief lays inside that I can come out from there..for there are locked doors ahead that I can open. I begin to hear that specific sound of typical midnight as the clock ticks 3am and I fail to understand whether both, the little chirping and the sound of silence, make any difference to the sensations I initially feel as I wait for the same whispers to get back to me. I still believe they'll come back but as the night continues to pass every moment, it becomes more chaotic to know the wait makes my heart sink deeper in an unusual way. This isn't what I thoug...

In my head, it feels heavy today. The feeling of heaviness disappears and suddenly I feel nothing. As I stand here not knowing what's going on, the winds since morning blow the same way they usually do but seem to have a kind of warmth they rarely do. Its summer but the clouds tell me that it'll rain today. Its evening and I'm walking alone at this garden having no one around. When it pours, I feel sadder. Sadder than I felt in the afternoon. I don't understand why, when it rains, do I feel so lost. Lost or perhaps, I feel most comfortable when it rains. It contradicts. Like I've come home. Not where I belong, but somewhere I can stay for a while. Until I  recognize the next clear path that seemed foggy some time ago. Is it always about keeping up with our pathways and not about pausing for a moment because we've come a long way? Is it always about knowing everything and not about being real and admitting we're still learning? I am on my way ...

As I set the jar full of myself free in a river that I don't know what I should call, it accepts my contribution and I suddenly start realizing that those before me have given bits of themselves to this river too, like the petals of a flower. Some plucked some of their parts and let go of them in here. Like those parts were nothing. Some gave away themselves completely and again, like they were nothing. I can't really see what they contributed but I sure see the space slowly getting full. This river appears like some invention by the unknown and I come to think its been flowing from the lane attached to my window, showing me signs that its time. And I have just emptied myself. In the idea of what its like to empty something. I can't see the petals but I see the water coming up and I remember one of the tales I was told, back in my childhood. The tale of a thirsty crow that puts small stones inside a pot of water, how the water level raises up and how its thirst vani...

How everything it, the revolution, provides me with, leaves me with something that will never be, that could never be erased by the mature, standard fingers of this universe. I am not guarded by any thick walls anywhere around me to restrict those fingers and the way they might aim their gaze in wonder or just as I'm someone anonymous. Anonymously known. Reason may be that they assume I'm not the same person they'd seen, that they'd met anymore. I don't mind the pointed fingers and the gaze reflecting so many doubts, probably, that I know I could clear. But when I am under this dark blue sky, I don't mind keeping things unsaid and unsorted since I understand I don't need to keep a guard around myself just as to keep the inside story safe and sound, just as to beg the unknown desperation remain inside. As much as it can. As long as I'm capable. And how, when the Moon is up, I can't be someone who I'm not. I get transferred to a place where th...

Because, if something really has arrived in my town whispering in my ears to make room for, will it sound crazy of me to say I can hear these whispers? Yes, it will. And I repeat, do I care? I want to form my own relation with these whispers. The whispers I hear. Like this revolution isn't a concept but a person. Someone visible only for me. For, more probably, my instincts. This someone pours some usual words in my ears leaving an everlasting effect in me initially, unusually and I feel like I am being reborn. I become sure that its a person when I feel the sense of breaths while the whispers being heard. But its not, I know it somewhere. How should I name this feeling, this whole sensation when I feel the warmth around me during these words I'm being told? How should I accept it myself that I've come to be in a state where every syllable holds a specific scent, feel of liveliness along with it. I realize I cannot want to form any relation with these sensations sin...

And do I need to know the age of my soul, really? Do I need to know how old it is? I wonder. As the greenish sky-blue curtains of this bedroom don't mind letting themselves flow, letting themselves be dominated by the summer air, the wild afternoon air, I don't mind going with the flow either. Like a child, I happen to think whether these old yet fresh curtains sometimes purify and cool down the hot summer air first before allowing it to reach me. I become more childlike mentally and wonder if its always been like this. When I see the one who has lately become my everything, my pet, resting entirely over a cold surface that we would call veranda, a smile appears to my face out of..nowhere. A smile, I know, full of memories. I pass by this veranda every time I get in and out, but how this adorable pet of mine, having come to where he was awaited for two long years, owns a power to make me recall everything I witnessed here. Over this veranda. How I lived the best hours o...

I'll be lying if I say I care. I don't. I don't care how many new emotions I meet as long as emptiness fills me. Should I?  Like the Sun doesn't mind, can't mind letting its light accompany it like an inseparable part of it every time it arises, I don't mind this emotion filling me physically, emotionally. My lungs, veins, cells and my brown skin. My thoughts, dreams and fears and flaws. I am not the Sun, but I wonder whether its burning that spreads the light, that uncontrollably gentle and dominating light all over the floor and the air of this universe, is strong and pure enough to enter one's soul. I remember how unstable I used to get because of one specific source. No, I don't blame the source, I wonder if I failed to grab the beauty, the positivity as much as instability I possibly got. But I can't wonder much. I don't. I've probably come farther than the path where I would've had asked for assurance, security around somet...

Things to be sorted out were all I'd kept in the pending zone of my mind, a number of days before and after I turned nineteen. I called my meet with N a break I probably needed but its too soon to call it a break and to give myself one in the first place. My meet with N, the time we spent together in a complete different place, perhaps, was nameless. Without any label. And maybe, I truly hope, maybe, the very anonymity of it was what I needed to occupy the meantime. The meantime when there were huge possibilities of me doing the unnecessary and getting myself stuck in yet another mess. There lay gladness in me initially. Gladness of knowing I'm still capable enough to be flexible and let things happen as they do, take life as it comes. To accept the unacceptable and rearrange the could-have-been-broken parts. To deny the guilt and hatred and define change in a new way. It was a little hard to know the gladness lay somewhere inside due to the presence of confusion, ...