Two pm. This giant ball of mostly hydrogen and helium is once again hanging on top, burning the soil, challenging me, dragging me to think whether i should take its regular appearance as an ‘ordinary’ thing or unusual enough to say there’s nothing we can call ordinary in the universe.
Two past two. I left the house in anger, in guilt and shame this morning. Left it for a little bit of silence and loneliness. Sorry, no; for ‘lone-ness’.
The banishment took too long. Now it brings sleepless nights as one eye watching the spinning wings of the ventilator while the other closed to everything.
I don’t sleep these days. My body developed a kind of resistance. It’s only when i see the pale light of daybreak. There i miss the moments of my child waking up, sneaking into the kitchen, picking a slice of bread and enjoying it with jam in front of the Tv. I miss all these, as well as my alarm which is set every night to yell into my ear in the morning. I neither hear the family getting up nor the tray of plates and cutlery carried in and out.
And that’s how it started today. I woke to my father’s sudden roar “You’re looooosing your child by doing thisssss!”
It was rather my dead body being brought up to life in an insane way, by an insane voice, with an unrecognizable tone. I didn’t have time to think, to consider, to evaluate or to analyze. I even don’t remember how i jumped off from the bed, and how the bedroom door threw me up to the kitchen. Who reached first to the living room? My head? My legs? How did all come together to form me again?
I closed my eyes, standing in front of all and cried out loud on top of my voice, with tears in my eyes and with a firestorm running up from my stomach as i barely forced my daggers become words. “I CANNOT SLEEEEEEEEEPP!!!! AND NOBODY ON EARTH CAN ROAR TO MEEEE!!!!”
There was a deep silence, a kind of intense silence with its enormous feet banging inside us at each step. There, i wasn’t a mother, i wasn’t anyone’s child or a daughter, any lover or a friend for a while. I was nothing we could define. But i was familiar to myself. I, there, in fact felt very close to myself, to my dearest heart, to the darkest neural pathways that led to my reality.
I grabbed my bag in anger – adressed to who exactly?- and walked away in tears. I felt every tissue under my burning skin, beating the layers they were covered with, as if someone i trust more was about to crack them and come out.
I walked. I dived. We cannot bury ourselves alive, but still we can cover the sea-sheet on us, as long as our lungs allow.
Two thirty. I was eighteen. Sitting in my professor’s room on top floor, thunders on the roof, staring into her eyes. Her soft voice stabs my soul because she’s telling me sincerely the truth about myself. Painful, yet i feel so much willingness to hear more…
“…you should be either the Sun or You – which is too solid, too an undiscoverable, too a non-observable planet, giving us no clue to estimate the next steps. Will you explode and form something new? Will you fade, melt and disappear? Should we invest on your skills or forget about your existence?
The sun though burns everyday there Deniz, with all its elements we know, we’re aware of and we sometimes welcome, sometimes complain, but always accept and estimate its tomorrow.”
Apparently and obviously i wasn’t the Sun. She and all the others never knew what and how to do with me. I was just not aware of this. Instead of being the Sun which is sometimes battled, sometimes thanked, i happened to be a closed system, sticking to do everything within worldwide standards, universal criterias, properly, and mostly denying the opposite dynamics kicking upwards from my core.
More upsetting is, realizing that people trust you not because of your estimated, commonly expected and appreciated behaviours but because the distance they see between you and them forces them to develop an instinctive or preferable alliance to this ‘unknown’. Because it’s safer to stretch a friendly hand to the unknown. This is the good manner, an intentional security precaution of human being, or being a ‘human’.
Two forty. Sad though, i’m not willing to be the Sun. My nature doesn’t consist similar elements. And i cannot afford now to try to change my nature. Soon this banishment ends and i return to my natural quarter where i have the freedom of ghostly night orbits around my living room, my kitchen for a film, a book, a drink with a cigarette in my space. These ‘lone’ activities will once again become my little windows to the fresh air.
And this letter is the patch to fill and close the crack that opened this morning. No more future leakage. Some of us can’t be the Sun, simple.