YOU BETTER BELIEVE IN GHOST STORIES

The shattered pieces of my soul were crumbling upon my feet, yes, I planted my own wisteria with the company of my roaring agony and there happened a ricochet burst every time I tried to move my feet. There, my burning love could not tear apart that wisteria, it must have become a ghost cursing your name and tying me up even more firmly to the ground that held my shattered hoax, which was proudly named love back then. Somehow, reality crept in there. Oh, how treacherous and sly it was. How fortunate, the truth was even more treacherous than what you did. The truth was the only one sharp enough to cut that wisteria off. And there I landed on my feet once again. The bravest thing I have ever done was burn that wisteria with my salty tears so that it can never find me again. Me and the ghost of my love, we can collect and put all the shattered pieces back together, even if we create a billion-piece puzzle of my heart. It will be stronger than ever once we leave your hoax out of it. They say what you seek is seeking you, I am not seeking water for the branches of your hoax that crumble upon my heart, darling, I am looking for a knife.

Your sweet and treacherous hoax will haunt only you now, you are the one who killed it. I, on the other hand, befriended its ghost. 

 JUST EMBRACE,

As he was trying to give me some scientific information about the sky and its blessings, the literature-obsessed ghost in me came into play. Interrupting him, I said: “So, can we say that the Sun is hiding from the Moon at night, poetically speaking?” He started laughing. He told me that I totally screwed up, scientifically speaking. Still, I support my case with a full heart. The Sun is hiding from the Moon at night. But the Moon is already so cold, why does not the Moon know that the Sun cannot burn it no matter how afire the Sun’s heart is. The Sun is hiding from the Moon because the Sun knows that the Moon is afraid of her warmth. It is in vain, though. Firstly because the Sun cannot burn the Moon. Secondly, because neither the Moon’s fear nor the Sun’s escape can prevent the magic between them.

Just embrace.

You do not need to fear anything.

You do not need to hide

Because the magic will happen anyway.

Just embrace.

"Not Mine" by İlayda Yıldız

   I am begging for a life that is not mine. Something else. Anything else. I am searching for a dimension that can take me in and change everything. An alcoholic drug addict author waiting for inspiration in a garage in Amsterdam, a flower lady dreaming about her lover as she grubs up the plants, a bookstore owner in London trying to escape the crowd to find inner loneliness, a child learning the alphabet. Something. Anything. I am begging for something other than this.

  I am worried about the book in my hand as I do not have an umbrella with me on a rainy day. A gloomy day getting swept away by slight drops of rain. The line that stands between the passengers and their bottled-up feelings of agony is filled with a puddle, soon to be covered by a train. I am worried about the book in my hand because letting a defenseless book get wet and worn off under the rain would be a poorly planned murder. I do not have an umbrella, you see, what I have on me is a seven-year-old crimson, chequered vintage coat. I am trying my best to hide my copy of Le Mythe de Sisyphe inside it. When the train that lets you get a full tour of the city -unintentionally, of course, due to its horrid velocity- arrives, I get in and start filling my head with thoughts that could get me through this.

  I imagine getting off in a town that is not mine. I get off in the town of red leaves and wisteria. The walls are embroidered with crimson touches of nature. The air…Well, the air spreads life. I am under the spell of this town somehow. I walk and walk some more until I am a red wisteria standing in the middle myself. I do not like it when I am unarmed, which happens when I do not have any trees or leaves in the street surrounding me. So, I take a turn and step into a narrow street full of trees and their hidden treasures. Homeless folks blended into the greyness of the town. Embroidered trees. Old cars are covered like they have something to lose. And finally, hidden stores stuck between buildings and branches. I see myself getting into a vintage store and hearing the stories of the clothes hanging there. A plaid shirt worn by a painter in Italy, she painted the happiest painting ever, then when she wanted to be happy herself she poured all the paints she used into her stomach. A velvet dress worn by Hedy Lamarr, who knows? A wallet carried by one of the first publishers in England. They all have stories. Stories that are not mine. Stories that I want to be mine.

  I wake up because I have to. I see the road coming to an end. I have to get off now, step into reality. I have to walk the streets of a town that is mine. Every single day, I have to stand in my own shoes, living a story that is mine. I am searching for a place to escape. If I cannot bring my dreams with me, if I have to leave them at the door, that is fine. Perhaps I can have dreams that are not mine. Hear me out. I am begging for a life that is not mine. Throw my pages. I need pages that are not mine.