You and I

I: I like that you like to live in the moment.

You: We are always living in a moment. What do you mean? You think you are not living in the moment?

I: True. But what I mean is that if I am doing things now for something that I expect to happen in a future moment, am I living in the moment? I am bit confused.

You: Of course you are still living in the moment. But you probably don’t feel like living in the moment.

I: But if I am not feeling to be living in the moment, am I truly living in the moment? Isn’t there a distinction between fact and fiction? Or is it that everything is fiction?

You: It can be that everything is a fiction.

I: No, our reality, the world outside us might not be a fiction. Pain might not be a fiction. Death might not be a fiction. I am not sure about pleasure though. Pleasures can be fictitious. I don’t know.. You seem to be living in the moment whereas I can’t really claim it like that. Or I should say I don’t feel to claim it like that. I tend to feel that I know what is ahead of me. At least I can have a good prediction of that based on my prior experience. But I am relying on my thinking mind and my collected knowledge and my instinct.

You: But don’t you ever wonder to start your day like you are a newborn baby?

I: I actually do.

You: Have you asked yourself why you have that desire to be reborn? Is it because you are burdened with your past?

I: It can be. But I’d say it’s not as simple as that.

You: I saw an episode of Black Mirror the other day. One thing kind of struck me. They were saying that memory is a way to trigger you to get back to your past to change your path. I have never thought it that way?

I: In a way it’s true. Especially if you are taking an action based on your memory. Isn’t it?

(to be continued ..)

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Bag of Emotions

I feel like I am a bag of emotions. This emotional roller coaster is not something that I dislike, but sometimes I just get confused about myself. Because I don’t know why I should be feeling what I am feeling. I start it new, then it gets old too soon. I know that I can pinpoint the root of each branch of my gigantic emotional tree, but some leaves just outgrow and outgrow and make me feel like I have nothing to say about my own journey. But why do I even feel to say? So, I let them grow, but then I feel boggled. I feel scared unnecessarily. I know the origin of fear, I know the outcome of fear, I know the future of fear, but still, the fear is there which is redundant. I know it’s all about being an open door through which things will pass. The moment you try to catch, you yourself are caught. I doubt my feelings all the time, maybe I just couldn’t find a better word than doubt here. Maybe a better way to say is that I want to judge my feelings, but then that’s probably not a good idea? Then why do I do it after knowing this is something I can’t comprehend. Maybe I didn’t learn anything so far, maybe it will be like this forever, and I will have to just go through, pass through, write through and dig through every morning like I am doing.  It’s like having self within self within self and ad infinitum. I know that I can not choose and pick just the ones I like. But the desire to stay unsullied, remain on a path is probably a struggle as there are so many paths to choose.

All I did is just I walked. I started from my home and I walked to the coffee shop, then I walked again and I reached the destination. But these few minutes my mind has roamed the entire universe of my emotional tree. It’s like reflecting a zillion of light all at once towards me, but all I wanted is to just walk without feeling anything. All I hoped that I would just bathe in the sunshine of the morning and my mind will just not let me do that. And I know why, and I know everything. But as I tell myself always knowing doesn’t help and in fact trap me more. So, I scream like Led Zeppelin, that you can not hold me find my stairway to heaven. And I will create new rules and then I will be chained under my own jail again. And I live.

On Living – A poem shared by a friend

A poem by Nazim Hikmet from turkey shared by a Turkish friend. And I said to my friend “I like how it gives me a sense of purpose and the meaning in living and the desire to live more seriously.” So, feeling to share..

About the poet Nazim Hikmet

Nazim Hikmet was born on January 15, 1902 in Salonika, Ottoman Empire (now Thessaloníki, Greece), where his father served in the Foreign Service. He was exposed to poetry at an early age through his artist mother and poet grandfather, and had his first poems published when he was seventeen.

Raised in Istanbul, Hikmet left Allied-occupied Turkey after the First World War and ended up in Moscow, where he attended the university and met writers and artists from all over the world. After the Turkish Independence in 1924 he returned to Turkey, but was soon arrested for working on a leftist magazine. He managed to escape to Russia, where he continued to write plays and poems.

And the poem:

On Living
Nazim Hikmet, 1902 – 1963
I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example—
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people—
even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees—
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.
II

Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery—
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast. . .
Let’s say we’re at the front—
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind—
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.
III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet—
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space . . .
You must grieve for this right now
—you have to feel this sorrow now—
for the world must be loved this much
if you’re going to say “I lived”. . .