To Be Labeled As a Writer

I write; and for the sake of my human existence, I guess I could be called a writer. I say “human existence” because between me and me, I don’t explicitly refer to myself as a writer, and therefore I am only so in the eyes of others who are in this human experience with me.

You see, it’s always different—the way we see ourselves and the way the world sees us. I’ve come to learn that one must surrender to this reality and be okay with it. Here’s why: they’re not in your mind. They’ll never fully grasp the wholeness of who you are, and likewise, you won’t fully grasp other individuals either. We’re all ever-evolving, ever-expanding beings. We cannot stop time, therefore we cannot avoid change. Some of us like to put labels on ourselves, and some simply don’t, even though they’re aware that the creative activity they do puts them in a certain “category”—for lack of a better word—and are therefore eligible for a certain label that helps others understand them better.

In my case, I can’t call myself a writer. But I write, and I have been living with words since the age of fourteen. So, to people, I am quite simply a writer. Because what else could I be in this respect? So I accept it. I understand that there has to be a word, an identity, that would make me more comprehensible in the eyes of others. But I also cannot afford to put that label on my shoulders and draw its lines around my body, my space, my possibilities. I let the word be stamped on me (it is a beautiful word after all..!), but I don’t let it define or limit me. This limitation which automatically comes with labels is what supports my decision to never again put a label on myself—especially on my writing—unless I want to destroy that part of my life and dwindle its significance…

Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps this all stems from my intimidation towards the formidability of the word itself—”writer”. Perhaps I’m still in the first chapters of my writing journey, and seeing myself as a writer will only come after a certain level of maturity, a deeper companionship with pen and paper…

All I know now is that I will openly embrace the label “writer” when I’m no longer living and writing—when the label will no longer interfere with my writing. Only then can they say, “she was a writer.”

Mystery To Myself

artwork by Aykut Aydoğdu

i park
facing a tree
the sun has set
music all the way up
seat all the way back
there are no stars in this city sky

what am i thinking?
what am i feeling?

if silence and noise
could exist simultaneously
than that’s what’s happening
underneath the bones of my skull and ribs

i don’t know if i’m hurt or angry
or if this aching knot of ambiguity
stuck in my throat for days
is directed towards me
or someone else

i’m a mystery to myself —
i don’t bloody know anything!

i’ve climbed walls to ascend
towards self-awareness
and i’ve dived a thousand miles
into the cold and dark of my inner world
yet i still remain oblivious
to the universe that brims within

maybe my judgment
is clouded by pessimism
but all i’ve discovered
is that being human is an enigma
that can never be understood
nor has hope of being solved…

A Blessing in Disguise?

Photos by @wanderwithnada

I’ve been anticipating the indescribable joy that would overfill every heart in the whole nation when they finally tell us the condition of the virus is under control and quarantine is over and we can go out whenever we want to wherever we want with as many friends in the car as we can fit…

You know how when the electricity goes off and it stays dark and hot for a while? We find ourselves gathered in the dark, lighting candles and blowing air with random objects… Just when it’s about to get really frustrating and uncomfortable, the light suddenly comes back. Joy and gratitude envelope every single cell in our bodies and we all feel giddy and smile so big and some of us even hug it out..! Then, with the company of our grateful hearts, we all go back to our rooms and carry on living our evening where we left it.

That’s what I imagine it to be like when the spell of the virus is over and quarantine becomes a distant bittersweet memory — a memory that we still can’t comprehend how we managed to go through without completely losing our sanity!

Light would come back to every house and every mosque and every street and every school and every university and every gym and every restaurant and every mall and every airport; and most importantly, hospitals would finally restore their calm and safety. We would no longer hear multiple ambulance sirens every day…

Those of us that were staying at home for however many weeks will burst out onto the streets with euphoric smiles and laughter; and those of us that were risking their lives to keep us all safe will finally get their rest (and free coffee for the rest of their lives, I hope).

It’s as though God wanted to us truly feel the love that ties us to one another as families and friends; to remind us of the innate solidarity we share with our fellow humans — a kind of solidarity history will brand as new and never seen before. A solidarity that overlooked politics and nationalities and races and religions and preexisting disputes and merely did the most human thing to do: to help.

This crisis has planted in us a newfound appreciation for our planet that we’ve been mistreating for decades. I, for one, foresee unimaginable good coming out of this unforeseen crisis.

Transmutation

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How can one feel so lost, yet know that this is the state that they are meant to be in at the given moment? So confused, yet know that this veil is only obscuring clarity for a short while? So broken, yet know that every whole and enlightened soul had their pieces scattered and threads torn apart before they were rebuilt into the loving wise humans they became?

Tell me, am I as lost as I feel?
Am I as confused as I feel?
Am I, oh God, as broken as every inch of me feels?

My Love, İstanbul

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by Emre Gencer

I find myself a seat in the corner of a coffee shop; brown table, wood everywhere, the aroma of coffee and caramel filling the air. I place my book on the table or on my lap—either way my neck bends so low it aches after a few pages—and I lose myself in a different world, touching the pages as though caressing a lover. Recently I’ve been double-pretending; the first setting is that of the novel I’m reading, and the second is İstanbul. Wherever my body happens to be, my soul is nowhere but in İstanbul, all day and all night. This she-city; my loyal friend and my enchanting lover, my mind’s remedy and my heart’s home. I am under Her sky, my skin absorbing the life radiating from Her sun, my consciousness expanding in Her language, my feelings expressing themselves in Her tongue. İstanbul is the lover I never got to meet in the body of a human; She’s the beloved to whom all my love poems are about. İstanbul is both a manifestation of my soul and a being all on Her own. I don’t know where I end and She begins. I have never loved as fervently and wholeheartedly as I have fallen for Her. It is the waters that soften Her edges that are the blood that swirls in my body. It is the echoes of Her past with all its tragedies and triumphs that engulf me and make me believe that life is worth living, no matter how long it takes for it to feel like so. It is Her complexity, Her fascinating identity, Her secrets and hopes and memories that have slipped into a haze of amnesia that I most relate to… It is the voices of the souls that have taken Her as their home, both as a blessing and a curse, that fill my mind as I pretend that the corner I’m sitting in is on Her land, by one of Her flowing waters or in one of Her cafés. This is what keeps me thriving as I count the days to have Her air be the oxygen that kisses my lungs; to have the chirping of Her birds be the pleasant sound I wake up to in the morning and the flirtatious song of Her shores and rains that I go to sleep to at night.

On a Plane

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by Vincent Versluis

On a plane, I am nowhere and everywhere all at once.

I am not the person time and space dictate that I am. Instead, I am a combination of all the versions of myself that I have embodied in the 18 years of my human existence. It’s 2017 rather than 2019—my happiest year rather than my most challenging yet; it’s a long summer vacation rather than a fleeting spring break; I’m going to a new city and sleeping in a hotel room rather than home in my own bed; I’m content rather than floating in a sea of melancholy; and instead of completely lost, I am grounded in my trance of not being in one fixed spot on the planet. Instead of it being a few weeks before my 19th birthday, it’s a few weeks after my 30th; instead of anxiously standing at the beginning of my life, I’m in the middle with the satisfaction of having fulfilled significant accomplishments and lived some of my dreams; instead of being just a student struggling with her sense of self, I am the strong independent woman that knows, accepts, forgives and respects herself enough to cast away the shadow of darkness that had been weighing over her for way too long.

On a plane, I am no one and everyone all at once.

Note To Self: II

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by Casper Nichols

I am finally confronting the rebel within me and waking her up to the fact that it is not physical freedom that I lack, but rather, psychological freedom that resides in my own mind. Yes, I am the prisoner and the imprisoned. I hold the key, even though I’ve locked myself in and thrown it away.

‘How is that?’ I ask myself.

‘Well, here’s how. First, let’s get the paradox of the key out of the way. I have the key to the door of this cell. Where is it? Look under the bed, in the drawers, in the books. Oh, don’t waste your energy looking in the wrong places. You are the key. You are your own salvation. You. It’s all you. You put yourself in here, and only you can get yourself out. You think you need a key of the material realm—driving license, your own apartment, sufficient financial independence—yet that’s no true key! Those attainments are beyond the door whose key you hold! Those dreams of yours will not be the cause of your happiness nor the sign of your freedom. They cannot be! Because they are not the source. They go through a process of manifestation, and that process’s first step is your psyche. So stop fiddling and quarreling with the outer world and look within for a moment. You need to heal the mess inside to produce a beautiful life on the outside. You are the cause, and the manifestation of your dreams is the effect. That is, you must be free on the inside to live that freedom on the outside; you must have a garden of joy for a mind to have a garden of happiness for a life; you must feel whole on the inside—compassionate and self-forgiving—to have a meaningful life. It all starts within. You are the first step. And if you neglect to start from here and go on your way to bring about your visions on the superficial realm of the material world, then, oh dear, you would be destroying your soul and killing yourself with all that effort and dread day in and day out. When you start your journey from the right starting point, you not only guarantee your arrival, but you also get to reach it through the easiest, least resistant, most divinely guided way.’

‘Easy and divinely guided? How?’ you ask again.

‘You’ll have the company of your wise soul; you’ll have your connection with your Loving Creator.’

Note To Self: I

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by Todd Diemer

Focus on this precise moment. Every single instant. Just stay here. Ground yourself. You have nothing to worry about. As long as you stay in the given moment, you won’t feel that drowning feeling. Just stay here. You’re safe here. You don’t have to know everything. You don’t have to know everything about who you are; you don’t need to have your whole future figured out. It’s okay not to know; it’s fine not to feel strong and confident sometimes. There are periods in life that are for stillness, and there are periods for action in which doing things feels effortless because it’s the right time to set things in motion. Right now you’re in the stillness stage. Don’t worry about the rest. You’ll rise. Those ideas you’re receiving will materialize. You just observe. It’ll all come together perfectly.

Nineteen

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Pinterest

sometimes it’s hard. being on the threshold of your life, between innocent childhood and naive adulthood, feels so terrifying that you doubt you’ll ever become the person you aspire to be. you’re filled with ideas and lofty dreams, yet the ground you’re lying on is way too far from the sky you’re yearning to reach.

i’m at this point exactly. i’ve already passed my 18th year and grew so much that the more i learned the more naive and scared i felt. i’ll become 19 in a few days, and i don’t know what to expect. every new year of my life could be the best or the worst, and i’ve had my share of both, and now i’m not even sure of which one i’m more afraid. the bad years hurt, but they teach, and the good ones.. well they come with the fear of their end, the anticipation of the inevitable turn.

whatever these coming months will bring, i pray they’ll be accompanied by a wind of grace. i pray that along these days my darkness will be lifted and new light will permeate my life. i pray, and i pray, and i pray, and hope that my voice is not an empty echo in the air.

Dare to Own Your Talent

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by MILKOVÍ

The other day, I had a thought-provoking conversation with a classmate. We were talking about our academic weaknesses, and this sentence came out of my mouth: “What’s the point of being aware of your weaknesses if you weren’t working towards bettering yourself?”

I instantly realized that I was saying it to her as much as I was knocking the door of my own conscience. Academically speaking (since we were at uni), I’m good at writing and not so good at presenting out loud, and she’s the opposite. So while I’m advising her to open the door instead of shutting it by dooming herself as “bad at writing and it’s just the way it is,” I’m also nudging myself to open up my own personal potential and dare to get out there and present my ideas into people’s ears rather than writing it for their eyes to read.

Then we talked about our strengths. She complimented my writing and I followed my thanks by reminding her of her excellent skills at presenting, telling a story, and grasping the attention of the audience. I then found myself saying that as much as I criticize myself and hide allot of my writing never to see the light of day, I nevertheless must believe that I am good at writing.

I absolutely and undoubtedly ought to believe that I’m good at writing. I simply can’t afford not to. What would be the purpose of my life had I given in to such lousy self-limiting beliefs? I’m confident in my writing not because it’s the only thing I feel naturally and effortlessly good at, but because it’s the thing that gives meaning to all other aspects of my life. Writing helps me understand what I’m going through; it helps me feel truly grateful  for my pain and failure as I watch my turmoil turn into chains of words that gracefully narrate a story and invoke a movement of thought and emotion in the reader’s consciousness.

Each one of us has something unique to personally experience and offer the world. Sometimes it takes years to find, but it’s there nonetheless. Just the fact that you will find your passion one day means that it already resides within you in this precise moment and that it has always been there. You just have to scrape away the layers surrounding it, disguising it, making you believe that you’re simply useless and will never be good at anything. Get rid of that self-critical talk. Remember, you are not this body and this mind only, you are the soul that’s shining the light of life into this marvelous human form. And a soul is naturally and instinctively creative. So who is your mind to tell you that you’re no good?