It is never a lie that I am as good-natured as I am incompatible
I'm a mutiny that has been silenced.
I was the last to wake up from the dead climate.
I am the rose of the season, my feelings, the nightingale of the season and the nightingale of the life I shielded my chest.
While I was an iceberg hidden in the North Pole, I drifted with the south winds to the equator.
My geography was never good, but it was a good geography that I believed my teacher kept hidden in her heart, and our geography teacher always smelled of cream and how she shone on the teacher's rostrum and smoked a cigarette, but sometimes she would sigh so deeply without inhaling.
I was afraid to love the woman, but I loved her, of course, and it was her reproachful smile that I resented, maybe that's why I turned to history lessons, but I never raised a cauldron like the janissaries.
I didn't like history either and I blamed myself for it, after all, that day my history teacher had slapped my favourite friend's face with a huge slap and rubbed his burning hands with a smile.
What if I got the highest grade in history while our friend's face was burning like a flame?
Then the painful news reached the class that our history teacher had suddenly passed away like the tribes to an unknown realm.
Most of the people in the class were indiscreet and I ignored the swearing of the male students out of decency. While even the pale sun was embarrassed, I wiped the board with my reservations and when I was covered with chalk dust, I would return to my desk like a happy hobo.
It is not only my dreams that I cured, but of course the ones I realised.
The realities are the ones that exceed my height and hurt me day by day.
I could never guess what the unholy shadows were and where they came from, and while I even chased away my own shadow, those shadows came after me in flocks.
Perhaps the curse of my late history teacher who escaped from the dusty pages of history, after all, as one of the victims of the rote learning system, I forgot all the dates I memorised, and then I divided the Ottoman period of stagnation and decline one by one.
I regressed or could not progress.
All over again.
I couldn't explain it and I couldn't explain it.
The choices that I know spelling mistakes, while I was in love with all my heart, I also fell in love.
The bitter memories that I could not destroy were eventually abandoned by everyone.
The vicious circle in which I go back and forth between my imagination and reality and in which I am a regular, and in which I have spent many years hungry and unexplained that I have not succumbed to the smell of a plate full of hot food put in front of me, so that while my bones are being counted, how many sizes large I put on my bones are now poured over me.
There is not a jot of it in my eyes as of the moment.
It doesn't matter in the slightest, for what purpose I tormented myself in the past, which I consider a virtue, and here I step on the tail of pain that has no nationality, and sometimes I slip like a comet.
It is never a lie that I am good-natured as much as I am incompatible, and of course my hidden successes are the return of the commands I give to my brain with my disciplined will: as I said, even if it remains in the past that I keep, most of them spread to the day and my joys and my joy of living while they are the equivalent of what I write.
A concerto, perhaps that record that is constantly spinning in my sub-memory.
While it is superior to love, some songs emphasise it and the rosy face of love, after all, even if I am a big adult as of the moment, I do not talk about love easily compared to my parents and while I was in love with love for a lifetime, it was never easy to keep love alive in me and my tongue lisping from embarrassment and my trembling voice and hands.
What is bad about being a child?
Is it growing up that is considered bad?
Then is it only adults who are considered bad?
Aren't there also cruel children?
Here is the raging mob of the class that haunted me as a child.