Life

Life

Choice of words makes a difference sometimes. I am not talking about loss or gain of meaning but difference… When someone mentions being alive we recall an energy, rejuvenation, freshness, radiance, happiness, and so on… When life is mentioned, a light appears… A weak light which is desperate, destitute, submissive, resigned, sunless, flickering…

Sometimes we experience moments when we feel the terror of realizing the bitter truth in childish rhymes like “Living is dying.” Then, we regrettably understand that sometimes life turns into a memory which is born dead or aged early or withered.

Would it be easier if it was being alive or would we rather the hardships of life? Actually, I see no traits in this to favor. I can’t find any, either. Life might be counted as an obligation and being alive is arbitrary. Being alive may be a small part of life, temporary, in other words. Life is permanent. It doesn’t mean that we will live forever… Maybe it is as Nazım Hikmet said, “What really matters is life, forget me not my Hatçe!”

Don’t you rush to say ‘what else?’ This is life we are talking here and it is not a toy! How serious do I sound? I said it but life is not something that can be described, commented, or understood with grand sentences or aphorisms, put these aside, let me tell you something simple, it is not something to be lived! It is so many things! It may brush us aside, it may, but life is not something we can brush aside, as I said, it is so many things! It is the truth of reality and the metaphor of everything. Everything and nothing. Time is the ruler; life is the master. Mankind has been suspicious of both being the same thing for a long time. Mankind knows that nothing will change if it was proven, so remains being suspicious.

Life. Hard. It is harder to write it. Whatever we do, we end up in its hands! On the other hand, we are talking about life, it is not in our hands! It is bouncing off the walls! It is not a theme; it is a topic! Whatever you write on it, it gets disappeared like it was written on water, or is it? I am not sure about it. Sometimes, like they say “Everything we say or talk stays in the space, does not go anywhere!” I want to believe in this; I think I believe in it a little.

Who is to blame, life. Life, scapegoat. Everything is because of this life. Many people out there have these kind of thoughts, you know… I think it is out of desperation, not cutting corners. Sometimes it is used instead of “world!” This is considered silence, of course. This is the world of those who do not find it worthy or interesting enough to talk about it, who have no one to speak, who no longer have a say in it, who know that too much talk tires and sickens the world.

“I am a lonesome passenger on the road of life” is actually the complete expression of the weirdness between the road alphabet and life. Life is neither the flow of passengers nor the flow of time, it is the road itself. The road of life is a mumpsimus. In other words, the life of life or the road of road. Maybe, it is something which has never existed. It is only our desire to find a meaning to our existence on earth and in the universe. Maybe… It is a confession that starts with “I don’t want to say this or I don’t know how to say it but…” A solace. Maybe it is like the famous words of Nafi of Haraptar, grandfather of Hasan Ali Topbaş, “I don’t know if you ask; I do know if you don’t ask.”