People used to believe in such beautiful things. To eternity, that beautiful and sunny days will come, and when it comes, it will never go again. They fought to the death for this and everyone who struggled has an honorable story. There is a paragraph like this in Gorky's book Ana:
“I know”, he said. There will come days when people will look at each other with admiration, everyone will look like a star to each other! People will walk around the world blessed with freedom, hearts will be cleansed of hatred, jealousy. Then life will no longer be a disgusting thing! People who are glorified with freedom will have access to everything! Then free people will live in justice, for good things, understand the world much better and love them wholeheartedly, that these people will be really good people! Then the people who can hold the whole world in their hearts, those who know how to love from the deepest, the freest will be considered the best of the people. Because beautiful can only live in them! Then life and those who live this life will be exalted.
This is not a utopia; Those days, when it was believed that dreams formed a light path, people looked like stars to each other, and suns rose to hearts, were experienced, albeit briefly, in a few points of the fateful world. Companions of thought said that those days were worth everything. But this is too much for people. Then the metal-hearted callous commanders of wars, Nobel prize-winning grudges, well-fed hatred, decreed slaughter and lovelessness reigned over the world. Again.
There is such a feeling of cramp in the stomach of humanity that evil takes advantage of this and progresses rapidly. Nothing can be done to the advancement of evil, evil awakens earlier than everyone else, blocking the imagination, which is the only thing that man really has, and asking him for identity. The answer given is I have nobody. We are no people of this age.
We are no people of this age. As the favorite toy of the concept of suicide, in the crowd, nobody cares; he is the man who repeats himself, whose consciousness is emptied.
Sartre thinks that man is thrown into this world. Man was thrown into the hell of circumstances. Left there alone, like the dead unread book. He was innocent before, but after this launch, all responsibility belongs to man. Man has to create meaning. He has to swim in the dignified waters of existence to the opposite shore, to the shore of those melodies called life, to hear life. If he cannot do this, he will shatter by hitting the mossy rocks of meaninglessness that appear suddenly in deep waters. That is a sack full of cactus that a person who has disabled his meaningless existence carries on his back; sinking into his skin as he moves.
Human beings are gradually becoming an uncaused, trouble-free, meaningless being. A lonely existence, without a past, without support. An animal ridden in the chariot called history, waiting for war and death.
Because they made you forget dreaming and drawing real journeys to those dreams. This is the greatest achievement of capitalism. Forgotten is the unrelenting flag of the new age What holds and carries that flag is chaos. Chaos is the magic cushion of societies that have taken for granted slavery. He sleeps well. Unfinished words, unclosed doors, roads not traveled, romance of defeat; that poem is yours, this poem is mine, it keeps wandering. Forgetting and chaos also takes literature hostage. Sorrow that does not contain resistance and rebellion presents to the pen. So geography; is sorrow.
Yet everybody has a small garden that he often does not even notice, in the endless valley of the mind, and the flowers in which he grows to make free sentences. But that garden is covered with a tarpaulin of silence. Saplings are immobile. The field of dreams is motionless because the meaning is asleep. Then one day a stranger comes to town and stops the big shouting on the wall of the defeated:
My tongue broke from the noise of the silences,
That's why my chest is the training ground of the spearheads
It's not just a sound rising from the words on the wall
It is a river of remembrance that reaches from memory to heart to heart to memory
He turns his head up and pays attention to these objectionable words that mingle with people by disguise. He notifies the owners of this unusual situation by running. The owners reward him for doing his job well and take measures to silence the stranger who comes to town. New trap schemes are injected into chaos. Fear is released. Lies are told. The declarations of law are in the air. Thus, the fall mechanism is kept operational at all times.
The boss of chaos goes out of his way to prevent the stranger from carrying the hopes he holds in his saddle to the societies that accept slavery. He puts charming and imperious traps in front of him. If it doesn't work, it will use force this time. He sends his men and puts them on the ground in reverse handcuffs, the dreams of the stranger. In such times when all the seats are taken by official betrayers, the Stranger is now a terrorist. Because he is an expert in revolting against dictators.
If the stranger is still smiling despite all kinds of intimidation, pressure, and evil, then the boss of the chaos gets alarmed. He uses an old method that has always worked. He lifts the holy book from the rostrum and says, my brothers and sisters, they are traitors, they are enemies of religion and the nation, and rented applause machines come into play. The vast majority of them lock on the screen. Unstoppable false sentimentality, false nationality, and culture of lynching pour from the crowd of people. What spills down is rusty words flowing into the sewer. Rust; it is the name of a crowded street now.
Everything Comes From Ground - Poetry
In autumn, the leaves fall on the ground,
As the soil says hello to the season, the trees are refreshed,
Everything that gets old remains under the ground,
New lives begin with a hope.
The rain gives life to the dry marshes,
The reeds are more fun with their reflections in the water,
Dragonflies seem to dance.
He freely releases himself to nature,
The season is not important for the crows like the fickle,
They fly everywhere with their indiscretion and calling,
For snails, the adventure has begun.
Time is short for them it doesn't matter,
There is no time in nature, it belongs only to humans and it flows,
The wheels are spinning all the time, in the circle of life,
His blessing is from the air, the earth and the sea,
Keepers of the summits, lords of the plants arm in arm,
Our unknown treasures are so many that we are not aware of them,
We destroy the riches of our lands without realizing it
I think it is possible to discover life, to live it again.
The stranger is still smiling. Because the belief in the eternity of the revolution is always there on the edge of his lip. The stranger represents pure knowledge that is not strongly attached. Foreign; It is not a stranger but we know very well, when looked carefully. It is the question bearer mentioned in magical books from one age to another. It is evening and, in the drunkenness of sunset, he leaves the most expensive question of the day on the table.
The one hidden under a human-colored stone appears and attention is drawn again. This time he does not run to let his owners know. It stays where it is. He is confused. He is also curious about the answer to this question.
Amazing