The Great Light

All my younger cousins, and older cousins, and aunts, and uncles, and second cousins gathered around whoever bared the match that ignited the greatness that are fireworks, it was sort of weird, like being a bundle of flies fascinated by nothing but The Great Light. So, we all gathered around the bearer, and we watched. We watched him light The Gray Cylinder, and stand at bay. We all stared at that little dark thing and waited.

It all started with a simple line of smoke, then the sizzle of a spark; the indication—the alarm that alerted us all, the messenger that called—that greatness has almost arrived. Seconds later, sparks turned into a line of wonder and The Gray Cylinder erupted as it reached the inevitable, and it burst into The Great Light. The brightest stars bowed to their audience, and were soon devoured by the mouth of nature. It was beautiful. We’d all sit in silence, staring at silence.

And it’s this thing with fireworks that allowed my naïve 16-year-old-brain to truly dwell into The World of Philosophy. You see, when you look at that sudden outburst of stars, everything inside of you and around you are silenced because what you’re currently witnessing is nothing less than beautiful. Every other thing troubling you, every other person throwing rocks your way, over other nightmare you’ve had, just… dissolves. Your mind is immersed into the wonder sourced in The Great Light.

We experience The Great Light everyday, as well. You see, I’ve hit rock bottom, and I’ve been shot to kingdom come thousand of times, and even as I hid in the pit of my despair, there was always that silent line of smoke. Then there was a spark. And then there was The Great Light. The Great Light didn’t necessarily fix any of my problems, but it had given me what I thought I had lost. It gave me hope.

It’s today that I thought about all this. My cousins and I were playing around with water balloons, (I’m sixteen.) we then had to gather whatever was left of our destroyed balloons to clear up their lawn. I then decided to grab a pile of wet torn up pieces of dirty balloon (I’m sixteen), and rub it on my cousin’s cheek (I’m sixteen.). She was a natural avenger, though. So she grabbed a pile of wet-torn-up-dirty-pieces-of-whatever-was-left-of-our-balloons and she chased me around with it. I laughed as I ran. I laughed so hard, running was difficult, and she was laughing too.  So then I gave in, and she had her turn. I was still laughing, and she was still laughing, because, right then and there all that mattered was the moment. Everything else just vanished away. That was The Great Light.

I guess that’s what happiness is to me. Fleeting moments of utter joy, where all the demons of the world bury themselves for your sake, so that you could have a piece of The Great Light.

The point is, we’ll always be fighting and arguing and jumping over obstacles and pushing boundaries away and crying and sobbing and hitting rock bottom, but as long as that split of a second, fleeting yet everlasting moment of happiness somehow manages to ignite The Great Light, then everything’s going to be okay.

Plus, you can’t have The Great Light without The Gray Cylinder.

Schedule your Falter

Note: I've posted this before, but I removed it instantly. It was too personal. I mean, it still is. But, in an exaggerated form. Even though I have thought about suicide before, I'm not suicidal, and I've never been diagnosed with depression, or any other instability along its lines. I, although, have always felt worthless, always a little less than everyone else, and lately that's kind of what my posts've been revolving around, because when I write, I write from my core. My core, at the moment, is a black hole. Slightly tormenting, but I'm okay. I don't write for sympathy, and I'm not trying to impose any sort of idea. This is a piece that is simply from my black hole, and I only write to be free. To put myself out there, because I am no longer in fear of what other people may think of how I feel. I'm exhausted, and I feel like crap sometimes, because I'm human and humans do.
But, lets not get ahead of ourselves. This is a schedule from my black hole (Again, not trying to send any sort of message. These are thoughts. Ideas.):

Six thirty AM.

Walk into kitchen.

Inhale ridicule, dash of terror, and a hint of cinnamon.

Six forty AM.

Walk to school.

Gather requirements necessary to suffer the heart burners, the unforgivable comments, the defining remarks, and the dying grades.

Two PM.

A gathering.

Wear a dress of blame, shoes of worthlessness.

Dress the tables with false claims, decorate them with demeaning jokes, and make sure those knives cut deeply. Would be humiliating to hand our guests old knives now, wouldn’t it? 

Smile.

Laugh.

Tear apart.

Fall down.

Lower.

Deeper.

Touched the ground?

Go beneath it.

Four PM.

Lay on bed.

Four PM:

Ready your razors.

Four thirty PM: NOTE: You are as worthless as the ice on the curb, as tiring as a dictator that refuses death, and you are less, smaller, slighter.

Five PM: Falter. Cut.

Untitled

I made a void.

I collected my miseries.

I collected my pain.

I collected my melancholy.

And I threw it away.

I made a void.

I brushed away the dirt.

I brushed away the sand.

I brushed away the dust.

And it all flew away.

When I realized,

My golden tongue was not a gold,

Sold by a seller who sells to the dying.

I realized my golden tongue,

Did not posses enchantments,

Nor did it posses charms,

Nor did it posses spells.

I am a mere child, who enjoys the union,

Of the pen and the page.

I am a mere child, and I do apologize,

For not being endowed,

With the power of the magician,

Who leaves his audience,

With a little less air.

To further elucidate:

I am sonnet 29, by the great Shakespeare,

Without the turn,

Or the great.

So, The Wretched Answered:

I always thought I was a mess. You made me feel like one, anyway. I always thought I was wrong. I always thought I was the one to blame. The one who just wasn’t quiet right. The one who wouldn’t grow up to be that perfect little girl who fits your little mold, and stands as the epitome of your idea of civility.  I was always the joke, right? The one you could easily point and laugh at. Because, my lack of skill in your area of expertise somehow gives you the right to throw me down and allow me to blend and rot with the walls, as if I even belong, right? As if it’s okay to take me by my wings and shoot me to kingdom come, right?

 But, how do you please an individual who sees nothing in you? Nothing but a wretched black hole waiting to be filled with every mess you could put your hands on, and OH how you loved to fill that black hole with mess. AS IF, that black hole swallowed that weight.

When, instead, it carried that weight on its surface and concealed it with a mask, just so the Adequate wouldn’t look at think there is more to the wrongness of the Wrong.

Because I am the black hole, anyway right? What black hole’s weak anyway right? I make a pretty bad black hole. But at least, at least I am one.

So laugh all you like, and I’ll pretend to take it in. It’s all right. Because, tonight when you’re quiet—I hope your dreams are bringing you light and fantastic things!—and when you’re asleep, I’ll be sitting here, taking in your weight, and slowly falling apart because your unneeded baggage is too heavy, and I was never made to carry it.

And, you know what? Be blessed I’m no rebounder. The ones, who would shoot back the pain, like it’s okay to drop down to a level that is a hundred thousand feet below.

So you know what I’m going to do? This time, this time, I’m going to take your baggage and I’m going to laugh at it. Then, I’m going to throw it down, A HUNDRED THOUSAND FEET BELOW me.

To you.

Dear Cennet,

Dearest Cennet,

I have been deaf, and I have been raised deaf. It's true. I remember once, before I saw you, I stood in a boulevard. And tried to hear the rustling of the leaves, the music of the birds, and the language of the gravel under each and every one of my steps. I tried hearing the sound of the air as it tangled my hair, and pushed the course of the grass. I couldn't, obviously. I couldn't at all.

Five days after that day, we began spending our leisure together (everyday). We ate in the strangest diners, we ran around Bursa as if we had all the capabilities and freedoms of the world, and with every second, my love for your love grew. With every second, I smiled and I laughed and I conquered the world and you were my conquerer. And as each second grew, I swear I could hear the sound of air tangling my hair, the language of the gravel, the music of the birds, and the rustlings of the leaves. I swear I could hear the melody of your laughter, and the rays of this sun as it expelled through your hair.

I swear you drummed my silent heart to life, and I am no longer deaf. I can hear the music remedied by love. I can listen to the harmony of the billions of glistening raindrops, and I could've sworn I could hear your lashes move.

Cennet you gave me a sense without applying it. You gave me a world within a world. You brought me to the highest of cliffs, above all the troubles in the world, because nothing mattered but the sound of your laugh, and I swear I could hear it.

Cennet, I will never fathom the complexity of love, but within it's entanglement— with you,  I will always listen to the grass, the leaves, the air and the gravel.

This is Not a Love Poem.

This poem will begin with the letter L:

Loveis what is great and drenched down,

Onto our souls, onto our highest cliffs.

This is not an epigram.

This is not a love poem.

This is a poem written to all.

Dedicated to the All.

Prescribed as a remedy to the few.

Announced to the some who walked with broken strings.

The Some who tore away the desire of the Few,

The Some who tore their hearts away.

This is not a metaphor.

This is not a love poem.

This is a poem for the worthless,

This is a poem for the unwanted.

And to them I sing:

You expel the light of the sun,

Through the strands of your hair.

This is a Truth.

This is a broken poem of truth.

The Used Cigarette: Thoughts of the Depressed.

... If I tell them I had initially written this with my blood, what would they think? What would they say? Would it alter their thoughts? Corrupt their mind? Destroy the very essence of their innocence? What if I tell them, they had killed me a hundred thousand times, and had done it again? And again? And again? What if I tell them the most demented part? The most beautifully deranged action? What if I say I had tried to murder the that disgusting, stubborn undying that glows within me, itching for cadaverous happiness?...

...I am a walking corruption. I am carrying the tumbling towers of my universe's bricks and I'm falling apart. I am dragging my past, and Death is my loyal companion...

... And they have taken my world away from me, and left me with my most revolting part. But, who am I speaking to anyway? These are the thoughts of a mind amidst a civil war, and who yells for the civil war anyway?.. Let me rot as die if I must, take my children, and keep them safe, and sell this heart to a cannibal...

... I would deserve it anyway. I've lived a day that was a thousand years, and I understood. I got the message. I am as worthless as a disposed cigarette... Standing at my grave will be children I never raised...

... You were a push, did you know that? You've drawn me closer to the inevitable. You proved— yet again!— just how expandable I am, the burned cigarette.