Sometimes drinks speak louder than words do
and
Body language speaks louder than verbal
I write
Pazartesi, Mayıs 18, 2015
A manifesto, by author Terry Tempest Williams in a book on Creative Non-Fiction
I write to make peace with the things I cannot control.
I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white.
I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue.
I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things
differently perhaps the world will change.
I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends.
I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure.
I write against power and for democracy.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
I write in a solitude born out of community.
I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that make me complacent.
I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain.
I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know.
I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness.
I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy.
I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt.
I write out of my anger and into my passion.
I write from the stillness of night anticipating -- always anticipating.
I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around me.
I write because I believe in words.
I write because it is a dance with paradox.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in
sand.
I write because it is the way I take long walks.
I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness.
I write with a knife, carving each word from the generosity of trees.
I write as ritual.
I write out of my inconsistencies. I write with the colors of memory.
I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as witness to what I imagine.
I write by grace and grit.
I write for the love of ideas.
I write for the surprise of a sentence.
I write with the belief of alchemists.
I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short.
I write knowing I can be killed by own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by understanding and misunderstanding.
I write past the embarrassment of exposure.
I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds -- and then I realise it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass.
I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient.
I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.
I write to make peace with the things I cannot control.
I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white.
I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue.
I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things
differently perhaps the world will change.
I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends.
I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure.
I write against power and for democracy.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
I write in a solitude born out of community.
I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that make me complacent.
I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain.
I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know.
I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness.
I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy.
I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt.
I write out of my anger and into my passion.
I write from the stillness of night anticipating -- always anticipating.
I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around me.
I write because I believe in words.
I write because it is a dance with paradox.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in
sand.
I write because it is the way I take long walks.
I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness.
I write with a knife, carving each word from the generosity of trees.
I write as ritual.
I write out of my inconsistencies. I write with the colors of memory.
I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as witness to what I imagine.
I write by grace and grit.
I write for the love of ideas.
I write for the surprise of a sentence.
I write with the belief of alchemists.
I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words always fall short.
I write knowing I can be killed by own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by understanding and misunderstanding.
I write past the embarrassment of exposure.
I trust nothing especially myself and slide head first into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it into shreds -- and then I realise it doesn't matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters from cut glass.
I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient.
I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.
Confessions
Cumartesi, Mayıs 16, 2015
* I am so bored of people.
* I am so done with trying
* I am so tired of failures. yes my failures.
My failures and my reminiscence
* I am so done with trying
* I am so tired of failures. yes my failures.
My failures and my reminiscence
Talk to me and get my heart
Çarşamba, Mayıs 13, 2015
“If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.”
veda mektubu ardına veda mektubu yazıyorum sana. yazıyorum ve daha çok yazıyorum. ama hiç birini sana göndermeye cesaret edemiyorum. seni hayatımdan tamamen çıkarmak mı yoksa bu şekilde her gün yanmak mı... hangisi daha çok canımı acıtacak kestiremiyorum. öyle zor ki karar veremiyorum. ikilemde kaldım, kafayı yiyorum.
Well Said!
Live for a vision, not for craving
"I should live for a vision, not for craving. It is such a simple concept, but it was incredibly powerful to realize it at a physical level. I felt as if I got struck by lightning."
Live for a vision, not for craving
I am not the only one.
Pazartesi, Mayıs 04, 2015
I have loved you. I swear I loved you, and I still do! I can honestly say I love you. From my deep inside, I can shiver when these three words spill from my lips...I love you.
But you are so unavailable recently, although you are always online on whatsapp. Deep inside sadly I know why it is. I know why you are online constantly even at 4am. I loved you for many years yet I realized you are unobtainable. You are unavailable for me, just typing but not answering to me. But God knows you keep mine in your hands. Damn it hurts but knowing I am not the only one hurts more. Maybe I am just not enough...
But you are so unavailable recently, although you are always online on whatsapp. Deep inside sadly I know why it is. I know why you are online constantly even at 4am. I loved you for many years yet I realized you are unobtainable. You are unavailable for me, just typing but not answering to me. But God knows you keep mine in your hands. Damn it hurts but knowing I am not the only one hurts more. Maybe I am just not enough...
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