I like a simple life. I recently came to understand that - recently, I have come to this conclusion that I like things which I didn't have any knowledge of liking them, and my past has been against their existence. Yesterday, our intellectual dieugodi movement succeeded, finally. No one rallied on streets and no tree was decorated for that. This is a secret kept by me and the dieugodi inner circle members. These five six people will hit the city tomorrow. This success, like whole these years of failure, must first linger in our minds and bit by bit grow in society, show its symptoms like a contagious disease and infect everyone.
Everything has been fleeting during my life. Most happenings around me have always been like a hasty rat's movement in house. Our house. Group's house. Life's house. We came quickly and we went swiftly. Movement could not be sensed or defined, either. It is simple. A verb.
For years, this coffee cup has become my pencil cup. I pour coffee in my pencil cup, sometimes. I like my pencil to drink some so it is relaxed for a while. I think it is hard for it to write all author's confused thoughts on the paper, curtly. It can't even talk to nag. I know the pencil well, though. When I linger for thoughts to be formed in my mind to be written, my coffee freezes. Coffee smell fills the house. When I don't feel the smell anymore, I approach the cup. Its steam fogs my glasses and I see my own eyes' reflection in the cup.
It seems like I have been in East Germany; waiting in a queue for food while my soul is still hungry. I still have the fear of shortcomings in me and the need to hoard feelings is still with me. A deep habit has rooted there and that is due to the situation of scarcity in everything. We form the habit to pick up anything for ourselves, anytime we can. A part of us must be hidden in our houses, so we can use a part of that allotment, bit by bit.
I have rested a mirror on the wall of the house. A stone mirror which never stops reflecting the existences, faces the streets, towards the yard. Yet, whenever I look into it, a memory of my past comes alive, as it is recorded in my mind. A full-length mirror echoes the existence signs to my ears. Cosmetics, empty and half-full bottles of my perfumes and colognes, face powders, little sticky notes which I have attached on the mirror edges so the mirror reads them. I want the mirror to embellish me, to draw its face near mine. Mirror has a warm breath. It always breaks my tears' ice.
Like the reflection of the lone tree in the yard pool which is broken.
The house yard is empty. It is only decorated with one tree, a yard pool and a bathroom. When you enter the yard, you have to march in front of them. Every day, you must arrange your life and start checking out. You must pass the bathroom and approach the yard pool and watch yourself in the mirror under the tree shadow. The recurrence breaks only by the presence of that mirror. You sit and see their reflections in the mirror or stare at the broken reflection of the tree in the yard pool. A repetitive scene which you use to break the repetition!
The books in the bookshelf are exceptions. The books could not be broken. No reflection could be reached for what is written. They could be read in one way or another, but their truth could not be hidden. The best place for the bookshelf is out of sight, behind the kitchen wall and in front of the TV. No one notices the books anymore. You should know the order of a place so you can reach the secrets of home. Physicist believe that the more your focus on a problem, the more hidden the solution gets. However, if your mind is at ease, the solution is right there. You should be calm. A calm look could reveal the secrets. So you could reach the bookshelf. That was why we used to write. All group members. We would build bookshelf. Full of our secrets.
We would sit next to each other and read. We were the primary audiences for our own first hand texts. This, also, was an excuse to gather together. We needed the group to thrive and every need is met by an excuse. A self-made excuse. A self-made.
When you try to thrive and stay alive, reproduction turns to your first unconscious tactic in your last moments of existence. If you are an author, you want to write anything you have not written so far, in these last moments. Your mind begins to erupt. Explodes from within. All around you will be filled with your mental sullage. You have things to write for almost anything.
It is time to die. Rats reproduces insanely during this time of dying. It is not even important to them to choose the best mate. Even females don't try to play hard to get and don't think to get the best mating rat. They know they won't exist anymore, but they steal bear. They put so much effort in reproducing tiny vulnerable creatures which might die after the death of the author.
