Typewriter Keys Reminiscent of the Sweet Melody of Church Bells

You are in front of me. I'm busy not looking at the letters on the keys that remind me of the sweet melody of church bells every time I touch them.

 Not only to you, I turned my face away from many things I love; My books, my coffee cups, Karacaoğlan poems, the snow globe on my desk…

 I'm on the 14th of February. The world is struggling with a major epidemic. You, on the other hand, have been accompanying life since the 1800s.

 Sometimes when I look at you I think of the times before me; I wonder what traces you left. Who knows, neither sentences were formed, nor straw papers disappeared in the saddlebag. How many musty-smelling wooden tables did you just stand there! Were you always in dark rooms?

 Your current view is beautiful. You are in front of a wooden window that looks as green as possible despite the concrete piles. It has been snowing flakes since last night. Now under the green snow.

 The last time was 33 years ago; Such a cold came to this city in 1987.

 You know this city is fragile; He's not used to white and this much silence.

Who knows; maybe someone else sat down and wrote something to you in those days…

 Where were you during those years?

 There is a hum outside. The storm is growing...

 I say that;

 I'm listening, my eyes are closed.

 First a light wind blows;

 swaying slowly

 Leaves on trees;

 far, far away,

 The never-ending bells of the watermen

 I'm listening, my eyes are closed.

 To the black winter, to the hum of the storm, to the frost, to the frost….

 I'm staring at you blankly. I don't feel like writing.

 My dark blue feather pen must have loved you so much that it never leaves your side. My books love you too. You all come from the same climate. It smells good, it makes good sounds and you live for thousands of years...

 I admit, even though I'm not on good terms with you, you're the most senior in this room! Your left hind leg is broken. It will be from the dim light burning next to me that I can't love you very much when you look from the other end of the room.

 When I was a kid, I only had black typewriters around me. Countless black typewriters with round keys…

 How I really love typewriters! They are masters. Nice is the apple of the eye of writers.

 I know very well why I can't love you. I couldn't accept the blueness of it.

 Let people look for fault in order to dislike something. How does he find it!

 I want to find fault with you, and the shores of my mind quickly fill up.

 You have so many flaws, blue typewriter. However, we are with you almost every day. You're standing on the left side of my desk with your broken left foot.

 So why don't I ever feel like touching you? Do you think it's your deep blue or your left foot that drives us away?

 What do I write to calm you down? Do we calm down?

 I know very well that we do not love each other. If I touch you, what will your saddlebag, which has been empty for weeks, be filled with? You're going to ring before I start, crazy. Inks will not be enough to write!

 Of course you have your own thoughts about me. You must be reproaching me for such criticism.

 You made a loud noise when I passed you that evening. It was a legitimate rebellion. Every time I entered the room, I met your reproachful glances, and this time you made a big fuss. I was aware that sometimes you would trip me up with your writing sleeve when you passed by. But this time your anger was too great. You scared me. What if something happened to you. It's not that I don't love you!

 Let's make peace. look! After a long time, everything is white again today.

 For a long time, I couldn't look out the window when I was busy working. I got up to get tea. There were low voices coming from outside. I turned towards the window and saw that the city was shrouded in fog despite the storm. It was as if quilts of white atlases and cotton were laid in front of the window of my room.

 Children and seagulls were playing games in the fog, but instead of photographing this magnificent view, I preferred to just watch.

 I just stared into that huge void that I couldn't see ahead...

 I think!

 I said if you can't see ahead, you shouldn't look. Without thinking, I turned my head. That was enough. All good things should be tasted.

 I sipped my last cup of tea brewed from the beautiful and fragrant leaves. It was winter before me. While a part of me loves the black winter; My other half thought of the springtimes of fresh green teas.

 I smiled.

 Where were we, master?

 haha!

 I thought what I wrote would calm you down?

 Obviously, we are both reproachful to each other.

 Your left side is fragile.

 My left side is as usual.

 Variable, pleasant, thoughtful, shy, compassionate and extravagant…

 Let's not prolong the resentment between us when there are so many meanings I have placed on you.

 While you are enjoying the beauty that came to the city after 33 years, let me bring a white paper with you. Let my fingertips greet you as the window sills continue to hold the snowflakes.

 And let's start making the sounds of the sweet melody of church bells…