dear beloved,,
ı had a difficult march,, truly. one night,, weeping openly,, ı lit separate candles,, one for childself,, one for my father,, and through tears recited letters to father.
then,, upon rediscovering that deepest wound in the heart’s center of my human body,, ı was hesitated to explore it further. funny. hesitation to explore self cuz’ it makes you feel selfish after all. better be involved in the wounds of your streets.
my mind endlessly tricks itself,, constantly deceiving itself and preparing for a destruction that is always in the edge of arrival. and each time ı’m deceived,, someone emerges filled with my soul,, then dies.
and upon his death,, an emptiness reveals itself clearly within me. the missing of this someone in my heart softens my eyes,, makes my voice tender,, makes my need for god painfully,, beautifully clear. suddenly,, ı feel god closer than ever.
these days,, the streets explode with police and rebellion. and inside me,, a jolt of wild excitement—pride knotted with dread. my life—perfect absurdity: mornings spent in shirts and trousers,, standing there for justice in courtroom hearings; by evening,, dressed in black,, face hidden,, shouting fiercely for justice in the protest walks of the streets; and at night,, when the phone rings—the dread: is it my friends? are they detained?
ı witness a rebellion rise in the streets,, and ı step toward it,, ı want to be involved,, ı like it,, but ı’m scared to death. ı feel god beside me,, and still,, ı tremble. and when ı tremble,, it somehow feels good— that fear surging across both continents of this city,, that fear—oh what a fear— the fear of a half-filled glass whose emptiness keeps growing,, the fear of first saying yes,, then no,, no.
the fear of stepping into the streets for the future,, or staying home and watching both future and fight dissolve. that fear.
but it doesn’t end there— that fear,, oh what magnificent terror— ın the deep,, damp,, sticky belly of the earth: the fear of being a root,, always hoping,, always dreaming of the surface,, yet chewing on it day by day.
the fear of people who burst into sobs at the scent of a barber’s shop,,
the fear of those who wish only silence—as if the beloved never existed,, as if beloved had died,, a scent still lingering,, distant and heavy,, to be closer to beloved.
the fear of going blind to the fire you find within yourself,, the fear of going blind to the things in you that look like forgotten wings.
yet,, not only from the tender strength of endless eyes pouring dry water,, but from the blazing light radiating from chest and shoulders,, contagious—the fear of that too. -the moon lives beneath your skin-
the fear ı might pen the most sorrowful verses for you,, -ı loved her,, and she,, loved me at times.
oh what a fear— the fear of a wounded wheel wailing its way forward by decoding fire. fear of the father who became his own enemy,, fear of losing your endless mischief,, fear of slipped discs,, kidney stones,, chronic headaches. fear of getting on certain amusement park rides that seem to swell monstrously the moment they start.
fear of loving too little,, or too much,,
not just the fear of injustice im talking about,, but the horror of waking up to the fact you were born into it.
fear of human beings.
yet,, how delightful it would be,, with a handful of naked daisies ripped from solitary mountains,, to terrify wild beasts and bureaucrats of land registry offices of this government,,
how wonderful to shout wildly,, until frozen to death,, reaching out toward the edge of a dazzling white ocean.
