Tonight, the last word of an article, "You have gone away from me a lot, I can not even say goodbye ..." and again a completed article. The question was not in the writing, but the real issue was the production of this article in another article. Anyway, what did we say. Some people go out of you and you realize that you can not even say goodbye when you leave. but it is as if you are starting to listen to your songs again after the death of an artist you have not listened to for a long time ... This is as painful as grieving behind a person who has taken the course of your dejection ...
It's not the people, I'm the saint, it's not the mourning or the unfaithfulness ...
It's not that I have to return to my word and write again ...
Poems circulate in the dark of night. "I know what I master, I am in the craft of ingestion, I feed the sorrowful birds ..." says the poet and I want to write the birds of sadness tonight ... "Then you memorize the answers, but life never repeats the same question ..." Can master and I I want to raise the glass and clap it with his chalice Datça, at the seaside ...Hi comes and then I'm fated "I can fight ... Everything I find right, all I find right, everything I find beautiful and everyone ..." , we are all buried in silence.
It's not the poems, but the poetry, not the poems that carry my feelings ...
It's not about sadness, questions or answers ...
The last books are spoken, and then they pull me to the middle of the story and try to make the protagonist, I resist ... "Once again, it never happens again. But will be twice for the third time. "The alchemist, I know it is right, but I do not have any words to say that you are right. I am silent ... "I am a sick man," says the other writer, and I come to the senses ... "Life is a novel, everyone is a novel hero," says Livaneli's novel hero.
It's not the stories or the events, but the saint, not the heroes ...
It's not about joining an opinion ...
I want to gift a song to myself, I can not decide. As if they were all telling me about me tonight ... A song of Beethoven that is presented to all the listeners on a local radio of a city where I have never stepped in, may be playing for me as well. Maybe now ... Who knows ...
Maybe it's not the song, sir?
It's none of these things, actually?
The problem…
What is the problem then?
It's the saint in the heart, the heart...