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bilge
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Dear Bilge,
If you had written me a letter, I would have replied to you. Or if, during our last meeting, a great storm had erupted between us, and many words had been left unfinished, many matters left unresolved as we parted in a fury of great anger and violence—then writing, explaining, speaking as two people who love each other would have been inevitable. I wouldn’t have had to write to you out of nowhere. I wouldn’t have withdrawn from you the way I flee from all problems. I wouldn’t have left people in a vast emptiness, as I did with my former wife. I wouldn’t have fallen into the commonplace expression of “I’m fleeing from myself.” I wouldn’t have been forced to resort to hackneyed phrases like “I’m writing this letter in a state of very confused emotions.”
What if I had never uttered certain words? Or what if I had never made firm decisions never to utter certain words? What if I could have said to you: the situation is very serious, Bilge—pull yourself together. I’m not well, Bilge; I haven’t slept a wink since the last day I saw you. If only I truly hadn’t been able to sleep since that day. At the very least, I could have taken shelter in a kind of defeat: “I’ve burned all the bridges behind me and now I want to return—or I am returning.”
I have left myself no words left to say. I have magnified my own power in my eyes. Truth be told, even using these words or writing a letter like this, I had forbidden myself to do so back in the days when there was neither you, nor love, nor anything at all. In the days when there was you, love, and everything, such decisions could not have been made. These were the dead judgments of a man who had already lived. Now, with rage, I append every line to the previous one, asking myself, “Why did I write this line too?”
I feel I have a duty to uphold my precious existence until its final moment with the same perspective. Because any different kind of behavior would be looked upon with disapproval by people who have formed even the slightest connection with me, who have shown even a little interest in me. Yet, dear Bilge, I now occasionally lose this precious existence of mine. But my wounded mind, having not yet found another land to escape to, keeps returning to me for the time being. I know that until this mind abandons me completely, no one will believe in the tale of this precious existence that comes and goes. Some people are fated to prove certain things not through their lives, but through their deaths. This is a kind of destiny…
I don’t want to die. I want to live—and to get even with everyone. That is why, dear Bilge, I have been condemned to absolute solitude…
English
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hani vefâî'nin; “beyazlar giydiğince bir dürr-i yektâya benzersin, siyahlar giydiğince sen hemân leylâ'ya benzersin, yeşiller giydiğince tûtî-i gûyâya benzersin, benim hoşbû afîfem sen gül-i rânâya benzersin” demesi gibi... 🧚🏻♀️
ᅠ ᅠ@greenvibe
butterflies
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yeterince dikkatli bakarsanız pierre bourdieu'yü bile görebilirsiniz 🎤
bilge@ysebilge
bir on yüz bin milyon yıl daha dinleyebilirim... youtu.be/mXOTJ-tluUU?si…
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