I don't feel this kind of pain anymore, it has become a familiar sting, a mere irritation of my skin. These little stings don't amount to an all-encompassing malaise, they are washed out by a pain that sits deeper, a pain around which your entire being has been built. That phantom sting at the centre of who you are, whose shadow presence, may crystalise, be revived by easy triggers, and that threatens to destroy you.

Events, as always, conspire against me. My own decisions lead to exclude me. I feel like, in a profound way, the cards are stacked against me. The extraordinarily good things that could happen don't, they rush past me, grazing me, leaving me in their trail, bruised by jealousy. The standard, lovely things life has to offer and that might assuage, falter.

Until my stomach will be worm-eaten, and my cough will be blood-tinged, I have anesthesized the pain. But how about getting my blood flow again ? I need to revive my dessicated skin. Emotionally I am growing sterile. The only time I feel blood beat at my temples is in anger.

After a soothing dream, I glide into wakefulness and immediately I can feel it hammering in my temples.

Rage reverberates through my being.

As the day passes, I manage to divert my thoughts of course, but in the morning the anger is pure.

Excess will catch up with you. But why does the punishment seem thrice the size of the sin?
I lie with my breath filtering out of me as if tinged with the taste of blood. My body and my mind have only ever been a kind of castigation.

A disabling heaviness creeps over me. It creeps into my blood as if every single of my breaths was poisoned. It binds my limbs. My gaze has withered. No amount of caffeine can pierce my torpor. I am prisoner to an inner person of paralyzation and pain.

Regret lies like a spike, painfully buried at the heart of your being.

I want to just dissolve myself in water and be drained off painlessly. But there's no quiet way to go.

I used to feel like kicking in my own teeth. I imagined how my head would snap back under the impulse and I relished the taste of blood filling my mouth.
I don't feel this degree of violence is enough anymore.
These days I feel I want to drag myself by the hair and drop myself off a steep cliff. When for hours your body is slack like an overcooked vegetable, nothing but a lifeless lump, dragging it overthere, to that cliff, seems an obvious endeavour. Feel the wind in your hair, you know. I often wondered how much desperation or self-hate it would need to take that step. But that's not what it takes. What it takes is tiredness.

It's since three years ago that I've been crying a lot. You grow older and you understand better what happened to you and whereas before you thought you could move on and away, now you cry. And then from then on, you just keep crying, you find pretexts, you create these pretexts, because you are too fucking paralysed to act in a normal way.

My dad had many daughters and they all died way too young. Some in the womb, one in infancy, two were born severly handicapped and died one at 12 one at 24.
I don't think the news of my death will do anymore than disrupt his afternoon coffee with one of his mistresses though.

My mum isn't cursed, but unlucky. She has one mentally handicapped boy and one suicidal daughter. I'm sorry I will destroy her life in this way. But mine was destroyed systematically during many long years in childhood and adolescence, and I am only administering the coup de grâce.

It was my dream to take to the mountains and take as many turkish soldiers with me as possible. I don't think I could physically manage though.
Ever seen a guerrilla who stuffs herself with anti-depressants and sleeping pills in order to get up in the morning?

I wear my folly in my eyes these days.

I've tested it. I've gone to the end of that road. There is no pushing further.

You have to dig there, where the path leads you to places hidden from mankind.
True to the brilliance.

I had too much time to think, and thought I had some sort of moment of epiphany. This euphoria-tinged feeling is always a lie.

Time to get drunk.

These are the days of my life I've suffered least. I realise this is the closest I'll probably ever get.

And yet, memories are rapists in their own right. At night, consciousness is the rapist of the mind.

Drinking to make being awake less painful. Drinking to take the edge away from consciousness.

When you allow yourself to have hot lunch at half past nine in the morning, just so you can start drinking wine with your food, you know alcoholism is looming.

That things aren't black and white, as clear cut as some might like, is all to present to my mind. I know that by being radicals, by taking up arms, we are pouring oil onto the flames of the ultra-nationalists. I know that I will fight young draftees who have done nothing but followed the system the state prescribed for them. I woke up witha migraine in my belly - my stomach attacked as if by knives because of this. I am aware.

I'm aware of various implications, but in my own life, I am simply fighting for the right to be fulfilled. Sometimes I fell like it's too late, like it it's all gone too far, ... I only want to destruct. 
Passion destroyed is reborn in a passion for destruction, they say. I can think of nothing, nothing at all, that could save me, fulfill me -not now, after all this. 
Nothing but pouring my soul into destruction. 

Living with nature, away from the alienation of technology, taking every day as it comes, the challenge to find food, make food, keep warm, march in the sun, sing songs -I can see myself being happy this way.

Instead of beer and speed, my poisons will be sugar and adrenaline.

I will to take to the mountains.

Annem, ağlama, benim gibi binlerce var... 

...and then, only, consciousness would loosen its grip on me, softly let me fall out of its clutches, tumbling down into a darkness feathered, thickened, by the useful vertigo of onsetting sleep... luxurious velvet cushions, pureness, relief.

For so many years I travelled;
I lived inside the sheerness of speed.

The opium of movement pure, balmed my lacerated insides,
and as long as I was moving, I felt I was advancing of sorts.
For as long as I was moving, I felt free.

But the illusion had to stop,
its shiny fabric had to tear,
The come-down broke in waves all over me,
and released again the abyss that used to hold me prisoner.

Released,
into the same old wound I inhabited all those years.
Released, into the chasm that surrounded me,
the nothingness that envelopes.

I would give my life for freedom

Accompanied by scores of black-clad, mute strangers you advance inside an inumbrated upward tunnel. You are on a juddering escalator, inside the jittering light given off by upright, pillar-like lamps which illuminate the scene only insufficiently, uncannily. Silently, stoically, these lamps stand there, at equal distances to each other, like the sinister soldiers in your gauntlet run.
For the nonce, the ascent seems never-ending. But finally, mercifully, you will be released, spat out, into the embrace of daylight.

What is it? A metaphor for life? A metaphor for life and death? For purgatory? For hell itself?

No, it's rush hour in Tbilisi.

I dream of the purity of speed
the irremediability of now
I want a freedom, raw and fierce


I want to purge the blood that crawls in my veins
of the sands of time weighing it down
I want no fear, no clasping fist
around my heart that holds me down,
down in the cage of consciousness
the burden of each other day

Trickles, streams, waterfalls
tides and tides of blood
bray my bones to dust and ash
wash out the slush
of my so-called soul
to cleanse the mire of my being

EXULT - There will be no pain
Just impact, shock, elation
as lightness will embrace me, swell, wrap me up entirely,
let the universe penetrate

I dream of tall buildings

IN A FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD I'LL BE FREE

"maybe not today, maybe not this way, maybe not..."




(I'm sorry for the teenage poetry, but I'm off of medication and am constantly beleaguered by dry fits of wanting to cry and paralysing bursts of deep apathy which make me want to drown out in a sea of blood and cartilage. There is only Fenozepam again. Sets me back a decade.)