My soul is a native child, lonely and barefoot.
My hands and feet smell of earth; I want it to smell like this, the roads I walk, the streets I pass, the houses I knock on the door and enter.
Wherever I see a river, I immediately adopt it, I bend down and listen to your heart. It's as if the water touches my face, and the wounds I have suffered from life have wells on my face.
Wells.
Yes, those wells are just filled with water!
My palms become a stream bed, I am afraid that if I stay away from the water, I will die. Because I was born in a desert village, the day I was born, snowstorm, roads closed, dusk. That's why my mother says, everything will be difficult for you, it goes uphill, for some reason it doesn't happen. It's a coincidence that they took him to the district in a military vehicle.
Actually, that's not the point, this is His story, I'm a small detail; I'm just three or five memories. Me and him and that desert village: hot and thirsty in summer; The winters are long and sleepless.
I am at the age when I think that heaven is in the sky and that the mosque teacher is a prophet.
I grew up in the large garden of the house, after the wall was forbidden. When I got a little older, I learned to climb the wall. I fell a few times, hit the stones of the children throwing stones a few times, I bled my forehead. I still bear the scar of that stone wound.
I did not see how they threw the stone on my forehead; it was just a flash of lightning. A wet heat on my face my mother wipes the blood fast. She says; Don't be afraid, nothing happened, so there must be something to be afraid of, for example, I could be out of sight or blind. Blind words hurt me more than stone. My mother deletes it, I can't even cry because she will be angry with me. She wants to reach the source of the wound, but my mother's hands have passed the stone; it hurts more now. If only I could watch the children playing!
A woman stretched out her hand and pulled me towards her; Let's wash it with water. Do you have anything in your eye, they draw water from the pump in the garden. Bitter water, the occasional splash of water on my face, I swallow the blood mixed with excitement. The bitter cake I experience becomes a taste in my mind. That woman's hard, black hands hurt me more, but I can't say anything. Then he wipes my face with his trousers, the situation turns against me, the sounds of children playing on the road are heard, they continue to play with an endless excitement, my heart stings, I want to watch them, but they won't let me anymore. I'm wondering who won and how is playing by going over the wall in this state. But it is no longer possible; My mother washes my hands, my face, my fear and takes me home.
I curled up on the mat like a criminal, closed my eyes and thought:
-Who the hell threw this stone, says that woman?
I like this reaction more than my mother's attention. I like the warmth of the blood, I want you to be angry with them for a right reason, I want to cry but I can't suit myself. I'm watching them over the garden wall, that's all I do, because they didn't let me play.
Was this my fault? It wasn't.
I just couldn't help but laugh when I couldn't hit the marble.
So my smile was the beginning of a war, I'm not aware of it. I think the moment I laughed must have coincided with the time he suffered, because he resented me more than his opponent.
I slept until the evening.
I woke up, nobody is there. A pang in my soul.
The rooms are empty, unlit earth.
It's like I'm alone on earth, a mirror on the wall.
The mirror looks into the room, me in the mirror and that boy on the edge of the mirror, we have to cry.
I went and sat by the window, and the evening got darker.
It was raining dark outside.
Fearful pang inside of me.
I became even more silent after that evening.
The wheat fields I watched for hours, the passing herds, the people, the bustle and the silent sky that gets deeper as I look. I didn't really care anymore. It's like I suddenly grew up from that stone after that pain.
Are the clouds farther away, my father?
Also, they are far away, starting after the horizon line.
Those far away meant my father back then.
Just at the end of the road that ends at the horizon line, where was it?
Couldn't he have come by walking?
Where was life?
How big could the world be?
If I walked or even ran on that dusty dirt road, would I find your trace, your voice?
What if he wasn't there, would it be time enough if I went back and forth without anyone noticing?
Could I climb the mountain, if I had a flying carpet, if I had oh if I had
Oh, and I meant to say how much I liked the title, because it's about how I feel all the time. We're in lockdown here where I live, and it's too far from the sea for me.