The wings of pure knowledge are what the sorcerer fears most!

Coincidence is the concerto of the senses.

I think of that marvellous word called coincidence.

Its spread in the infinite loneliness of the universe.

How that gift presented to sad hearts at unexpected times awakens the joy of living.

To meet a girl I knew from the town of cancelled memories in a poetry van in a city of sixteen million people, where I went for the first time, to sit softly next to her and smile... To hold on to that smile.

I think about the deprivation, the trappedness of people who don't even have a small coincidence, who are planned. Under this dreamy sky; the impossibility of millions of people living without depth, without friends, without love and without rebellion against injustice... I think, the thought has sharp teeth.

But that's not exactly what I want to tell. I want to tell about the sorcerer, the painter of the vastness of evil and pain. The illusion that makes us forget rebellion despite all the devastation. The terrible skill of the brush that makes people docile despite all the cruelty. It requires great mastery to cover the unhappiness of a society whose knees bleed from being brought to its knees in a bleeding society. Everyone is now a spectator there. There is no room left in the stands. Ceremoniously, the national hungry fixture has already been drawn.

I want to hang my anger on the cloakroom for a short while. It falls to the floor. I pick it up and hang it again. It falls again. My anger bounces around the house. I set it free. It's the only thing that's already free. I throw myself on the balcony. On a warm afternoon, I lock eyes with the rain that comes down suddenly like an uninvited guest. I like the sudden rain more than the expected rain. It reminds me that I am human. That rain has come to talk to you. I let myself go, I have nothing to hide. The sudden rain suits the balconies better. The way the spoilt droplets hanging from the balcony bars, lined up side by side, are so cute and full of little dreams. Because it rebels against the captivity of time and space and takes our slavery away from us.

Our slavery.

Our slavery is the sorcerer's greatest mastery.

One can tell thousands of pages about inner journeys involving "coincidences" and "rains". But this is not possible in a country that is constantly being shot in the head. The Wizard will not allow it. Peace (the peace of others) is the Wizard's least favourite thing. The Wizard has that trigger on automatic. The Sorcerer ceremoniously presents pawn exchanges. He creates clouds from the concepts of homeland, flag, race and religion and rains accepted nightmares on the peoples stuffed into pits. The Sorcerer also has hard-working men who supervise, observe, oppress and terrorise everywhere and everything. The Wizard's highly paid men call themselves patriots.

I'll leave Samuel Johnson's quote Patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels here for now, I'll pick it up again later.

This very talented painter and his men who are not painters, the errand boys of his men who are not painters, in the luxurious halls where they present the picture of chaos they have painstakingly worked on for years, do not let patriotism slip from their tongues. They speak of blood and death from the pulpits. The glory of death.

What they enjoy most is selling the meanings of flags. As they sell, they get a lot of passion, unconditional loyalty and applause in return. And most importantly, boxes of money. This is how the cover is formed; that perfect cover that makes you forget unhappiness. They do not want it to be known that they are chasing tenders. Tenders are their gods. Everyone knows what is really going on. But that knowledge is mute. Knowledge without language is dead. The only ones who don't know what is going on are those who are sent to the fronts to destroy the lives of others. But not knowing does not mean innocence. There are also those who are waiting for a saviour with hope and faith, their situation is even more sad. Although they know everything that is being done, they wait for the saviour to come and pay the whole price rather than doing something and paying the price. Whoever is waiting for a saviour, those who pretend to be saviours find and exploit him. It is his destiny to be exploited. In the queue of this whole convoy of chaos, big liars, Mr Economists, refugees, asylum seekers, enemies of asylum seekers, human traffickers, and so on and so on. In times of high occupancy and drugging, the cry of the die-hards is enormous.

They are popularly called shouters.

But when reality starts coming at them like raging horses, they jump into the clouds of silence and run away. They are the disintegration of meaning. And deception, oh that deception, that poetic dagger is monumentalised by dazzling the eye. It's the sorcerer's holy book.

I believe in coincidence and rain. I believe in weather that is above seasonal norms. I talk to insects that gnaw the curtains. I read books with cold climates in them. I go to cities I've never been to in my imagination. I wander at the bottom, holding my breath for a long time. Then I stubbornly rise to the surface and hold on to the wings of pure knowledge that defies the void.

The wings of pure knowledge are what the sorcerer fears the most.

Because on those wings there is the knowledge of resistance, struggle, rebellion and objection to deception.