The woman in the Warsan Shire poems

As simple as possible. Thank you for the inspiration N.

Today I’ll tell you a story but I am not obliged to tell you the truth about it. I don’t have to consider all sides to this story and God knows, I will not.  I don’t have to be unbias or anything, I will take my side from the very beginning to the end. Because I am the villiain. And villiains maybe are blamed and disliked but they are free of any social norm because they are expected to do abominable things.

Today I’m not bitter over this story and I am not grieving over it. It seems as if it was never my story but it was a tv series that I overattached and fantasizes over. I wasn’t always the villiain that’s for sure. It happened over a night. It’s thought-provoking how tables turn in a small amount of time. It didn’t only provoke my thoughts that’s for sure because I accepted the role of  being a villiain. It provoked me utterly. Words, the power of words my friend! Love or hate or any kind of emotion is not enough to do anything but words, words are always enough. They can be used for and against you, same words, same people. I thought it, fought it, went back and repeated it. But I was resentful, I could not picked another road, I am not sorry that I’m a villiain. My destiny at some point would make me a villiain I have always sensed it. But I am surprised that this is the story in which I have to be the villiain.

The story… Right! Where to begin is up to me since I will be telling the story. You know, I like to tell a story. There is not a story which people heard from me and took the other side. I have the power to make people believe. Or maybe I was always the right side to choose but that seems like a small chance. When I tell a story, I tell it well. I put my cards open, I tell about my own feelings. It is really hard to do in fact since I don’t have any. But when you tell people about your feeling they feel you have this bond. People can feel sympathy over a villiain if you market it well. Maybe knowing this is the main thing that makes me a villiain. I am not sincere I am not true I am not innocent nor guilty. But the thing is I don’t have to let you know this, letting you know this is letting you know I am the villiain. There might be a lot of people pass you by, or live next to you who is a worse villiain, the kind of villiain I will never be, but you’ll never know because they will never let you know. Everybody is given this role but not everybody accepts it. Maybe I am a little sincere, maybe this is a game too.

Whatever! This is not the point. What was the point? I was talking about a story, right? What was it again?


‘I don’t know why they’re trying to give everything an intrigue meaning. People search for deeper meanings, clever remarks in life just to make it big and precious. Life is already big and precious without us playing God. Simple things are more beautiful as simple. Like smoking is just smoking. It’s not a metaphor, it’s not something clever. I’m not trying to achieve anything ironic about life. It’s just smoking you now, I’m just smoking. They say every cigarette causes you to lose 10 minutes from your life. If I’m going to die at 80, I don’t mind dying at 79. And if I’m going to die at 25 and smoking will kill me at 24, then it is already a shame. It’s simple. Loss has degrees in terms of importance. Loss is not always something unbearable.’

‘You have big hands. It’s almost like they can hold my world. My world has been so shaky, full of ups and downs. But your hands, i think they will hold it steady. Be the steadiness in my life. Your hands may not be the biggest but they are bigger than mine. That’s why I asked you to hold my wrecking world as one piece. But if you say you can’t or won’t hold my world, well it’s ok. You just hold my hand, I can settle with that. And if you say you can’t hold my hands too, well I’m not sure if I’m ok with that yet. Loss has degress in terms of importance. Loss is not always bearable.’

‘Sometimes I feel as if losing will turn me into a better person, wiser maybe. Then I remind myself that I don’t believe in deeper meanings and clever remarks.Yet, I still don’t see the bigger picture in this lose-lose games. I spend days and nights thinking. I’m losing my mind as I’m trying not to lose your hands and I’m losing your hands as I’m trying not to lose my mind. But loss has degress in terms of importance. Loss is not always something evitable.’



This is an apology letter to the both of us for how long it took me to let things go” 

Buddy Wakefield

     It always feels like a year but it only takes a few seconds to lose your mind. It’s a sudden urge to get out and get away and you try to remember how it felt at that last moment when you were completely sane.Everything gains a different meaning, belonging to a “before” and an “after” of a landslide. It is ok, but it really is not. And it only takes a few seconds.

     Last moments. I have been trying to remember the last thing I said to anyone and I can’t recall. Last joke, last song they are all in blur. I am in such hurry to catch up with the world, with people around me that I always miss something. I am turning into a person who looks people’s eyes, begging them with my own, hoping something would make sense so that I can keep up. I try to carry my people with me even if they’re slowing me down. And I can’t understand people and how they sacrifice others just to be ahead with the crowd. But it’s no use of fighting with people, I know that. What I don’t know is that why I keep doing it.

      There is one last moment I can recall. It is a fight, it is a cycle to be honest. Triggered with indifference, carried out by fear, ended up with silence. It took a few seconds but I swear it was a year. I never meant to be so destructive. He never meant to be so careless. He was never good with words, I knew but never accepted. He was being himself, dropping people and words along the road until he’s fast enough to reach safe grounds. I thought he’d come around. Just like in Marquez’s book it is true that love can overcome anything but it is better if we don’t believe in that. It was a magnificient day in Paris when I come to realize he’s too far ahead and he has no intention to come around any time soon.


18 minutes, that’s all that I’m willing to lose for him, other than my mind. And those minutes are not for him, they’re for me. I need to prove myself that this was nothing more than a tragic love story. Nothing special. He was nothing special.

15 minutes and I’m all prepared for what won’t happen afterwards. There is a mistake made in every love. We’re prepared for what may happen but we miss that what may not happen hurts more than the first option. And in this story, what won’t happen is he won’t realize that these are the last seconds. Or he will but won’t care. I chose the one that sounds more tragic.

8 and I suppressed all my fears of oblivion since it’s senseless. I don’t leave, I abandon, I am doomed to be forgotten. Wish I knew the appropriate way of saying goodbye because I’m almost sure writing something in a blog is not the right way. But then again, we didn’t do anything right. Fragments of hellos are to be completed with fragments of goodbyes. It sounds lyrical but it’s not. It is stupid and tragic. Tragic is the key word.

2, There’s a record store in my mind and his songs seem to play on replay. That’s why I will silence the place with white noise. It was a bad idea to make his songs mine. They were his and now they’re taking his side.

1, I want to think he wasn’t the one and go to sleep believing the same thing. I want to wake up thinking exactly the same thought and when I’m preparing breakfast I’ll repeat it silently and constantly. I’ll do that until I am satisfied.



When you love someone and you break up where does the love go?

Carrie Bradshaw

         3 Notes from a long lost love

  • He had ghosts, plenty of them. Every time somebody opened his/her mouth to talk about him, they were also summoning the ghosts. The temperature would change but it seemed as if I was the only one who shivered. Ghosts were always around, always in between, talking to me by a friend’s mouth. Somewhere in between this routine of falling in and out of love I lost my mind. Then he let them in. It was too crowded in his heart, so I left. I went back on the road.
  • I’d never had anybody who I was obliged to know like I know myself. I’d done all the wrong moves, chosen all the wrong times because I didn’t know. And when I realized I was doing it wrong, I simply stopped doing anything. I stayed on the safe side, going through our past conversations but always avoiding to start a new one. It was like silently memorizing a play that would never get to see its’ audience. After all those wrong times, it was probably the first time I did a thing on the right time, when I left to go back on the road.
  • It wasn’t pride nor was it prejudice. It wasn’t arrogance either. What was it that made it so hard? It wasn’t that we made it hard, but somehow it was hard. I remember seeing fire and thinking how amazing it is to feel the way I felt. But I’ve never thought it would burn down everything I took for guaranteed. I know he thought I didn’t care, or that I cared but not enough to feel bad about it because that was the exact thought that crossed my mind. It took us a lot to realize that this wasn’t the case but I was back on the road by then. 


I have a bad memory, it is so bad that it might actually be a curse. When I look back at time I can only picture scenes as if they are an early sketch of a work that has potential. But still there is no detail, no name, no specific time, no specific smell whatsoever.

 We’ve met him, remember?

I care so much about names. I believe that names give character. Names are the unintentional first impressions, they are the things which symbolize our existence. Names can be strong, weak, common, unique, old fashioned and so do people they belong. We fall in and out of love with a name and that name can haunt us for the rest of our lives. I care so much about names and ironically I cannot remember them.

             What was his name again?

I recently finished reading Patrick Suskind’s “Perfume, The Story of a Murderer” and I fell in love with the idea of being able to collect smells. It wasn’t the main point of the book but as I was reading how Jean was re-experiencing the smells, controling them, mixing them to create new perfumes and using them to form a world of his own in his mind, I was mesmerized. If we had a memory of perfumes, what would have changed? How would our brains shape? Was Jean playing God? Did Jean know who God is? Did God know who he is?

He did smell like beer, didn’t he?

With these questions in my head, I was fooling around aimlessly. Then I found my baby doll in a box, in the house I grew up in. It made me remember the old days but I don’t know whether those memories are the ones that are told or the ones that are recalled.

He did, indeed


I’m having flashbacks from a time that has never existed

                                         Japan, 6 a.m.

     Anything seems possible in those moments. Any life can be lived, might have been lived if we had taken different paths. Home seems irrelevent since any place can be the one we belong. Or just like in my case, one may not belong to any place and belong to every place. It sounds like cheap poetry, it probably is one cheap poetry but that doesn’t make it wrong.

                                         TV commercials, white noises

     I’ve always loved city lights. When I am on a plane I like seeing cities looking as if they are neurons in our brains. Stimulated with impulses that carry happiness, sadness, love and pain. Every city breathes them, lives them. Neurons in our brains and cities in our hearts they have so much in common that even a skeptic like me questions the probability of them being all a big coincidence.

                                          Tea leaves, grey clouds

     My flashbacks are so real that sometimes they replace memories. That thin line which separates what happened and what might have happened comes and goes lately. I am not sure if it’s a good sign or a really bad one. But a part of me feels that it doesn’t matter because thinking too much about the line can make me miss what happens beyond it. When I took this photo I was having a flashback, a flashback from a time that never existed.

                                          Mads Langer, waking up.


“Insomnia is a gross feeder. It will nourish itself on any kind of thinking, including thinking about not thinking.”

-Clifton Fadiman

    My father always says that the image of the praying old Asian woman he once saw in Chinatown eases his mind when he has troubles with sleeping.

    My mother never admits but I know smoking eases her mind and helps her get rid of the ghosts that haunts her. I am pretty sure the ghosts that belong to very old times still visit her time to time.

    We’ve had our ghosts and our sleeping problems since forever. But I can’t really remember when me and my mother started to make tea in the middle of the night and watch the planes pass our sky. The funny thing was that I wasn’t very fond of drinking tea but I liked how the cup stood there.

         My mom always says that tea gives her insomnia but she drinks it whenever she can’t fall asleep.

         My father always says that he is sick of this city but he makes all his future plans based on it. 

          I always say I am out of love but I fall in love with every plane and every tea and every wrong person.

    I took that picture in Chinatown in San Francisco, it was the tea store I realized people make tea out of practically everything that smells. I knew if my mother was there she would go out and smoke because that is what she does. I fell in love with San Francisco because that is what I do. And my father told me how he found this city more beautiful than our own while he thought of signing a 5 year contract that binds him to the exact city he complains because that is what he does.

“A sense of humor is the ability to understand a joke – and that the joke is oneself.”

says Clifton Fadiman.

A thing to think that will go well with my insomnia tea.


”We all become great explorers during our first few days in a new city or a new love affair.”

                                -Mignon McLaughlin

     It is amazing how people see different things in a same view, it is amazing how we don’t fall in love with the same person and it is sad that we enjoy only a part of “the beauty” but we usually experince pain in every way possible.

It is the human nature that all the 21. century’s books are trying to fight with so desperately. They constantly tell us to admire the historical beauties, natural beauties. Beauties of the diamonds, beauties of everything we cannot take home at the end of the day… I try to see the beauty which everybody talks about but I keep seeing humanity and the simple beauty of the human nature.

On a little street sign in front of the glorious Vienna, there stands a new suggestion to an old city;

  “Stay rude. Smoke weed. Love rapid.”

Pure human struggle,

What our mothers told us not to be and what we want to turn out collapse so cruelly on a little street sign that I cannot help but think that;

    As we are admiring our mothers we secretly promise never to end up the way they did. So we get on planes and travel places they’ve never been.

I wonder if there will ever come a time when I will run out of places, run out of street signs and run out of love. Because I look around and see people pass me by without noticing the street sign which fascinated me so much that I had to write.

I wonder whether I will always have to be on the run to feel like an explorer or my soul can wander in a city which my feet are familiar with.

    “Youth is not enough and love is not enough and success is not enough and if we could achieve it enough would not be enough”.

Again the lovely Mignon McLaughlin.