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  • As if something else

    As if something else

    Not in Sartre’s existence,

    Not in Nietzsche’s nothingness,

    Not in the indescribable dreams through Freud’s lens,

    Not in Rumi’s azure serenity,

    Not in Kundera’s unbearable lightness,

    Not in the mythalogical trial of the Odyssey cast by Homer,

    Not even in the lexicon of artificial intelligence,

    Yet a bit in Omar Khayyam’s black-grape drunkness,

    Playing alone at the edge of a bottomless abyss,

    In the blinking of ancient genes waiting for millions of years for their moment,

    Like a weary earthly courier wandering through the wormholes of a dark star,

    In an indescribable uncertainty, at the yet unnamed birth of a waiting synthesis.

    written by Aşur Horoz

  • A Creature

    A Creature

    In my dream, I saw a creature resembling a child. Its nose was the ugliest I had ever seen, its mouth was far too large for its face, its teeth were disproportionate, and it seemed to have no neck. It was as if its short height had eradicated its neck just to bear its colossal head. It evoked the feeling of someone striving to beautify themselves, yet unable to conceal their ugliness no matter what they did. It was too ugly even for a world where beauty held no importance.

    I am always running away from things in my dreams. This time, I wanted to flee in the truest sense of the word. It told me it wanted to marry me. Why? I felt as though I had made it believe so… I didn’t want all the lies I had told to be exposed. Had I been lying constantly? Why did I think this way? I felt as if my whole life had been spent trying to convince it.

    Human beings crave attention. Why is it so important that someone chases after us? With so many people around with inflated egos… why did I feel as if I were going to become one of them? After all the things it had written to me. Why didn’t I tell it? I didn’t want my children to look like it. It was too ugly for me. I am disgusted with myself. Where did such thoughts even come from? Perhaps, for the first time, I felt honest. It was as if that creature was the very embodiment of all the lies within my mind.

    I woke up. To continue living with the relief of having rid myself of it. But I am always dreaming of it. How could I have told so many lies? Why did I string it along for a bit of attention, when I could have always told the truth? A human being is sometimes immoral. And I am one of them. For embracing the monster inside me with my lies. For turning my God into a creature.

  • What is it to love

    What is it to love

    Is it your mothball-scented gaze,
    burdened with the weight of years?

    Is it the reckless touch of your hands,
    daring to face crucifixion?

    Is it the dance upon the shuddering skin,
    of a delicate frequency flowing from your inner depths?

    Or, is it to deny the entire universe,
    and become imprisoned in an unlockable drunkness of the mind?

    Is it to melt away from within,
    behind unbidden, ill-fitting masks?

    Is it to unleash your most ineffable screams of “enough,”
    and retreat into your own obscurity?

    Is it to exist with your true essence, if only briefly,
    in a weary yet tranquil nothingness,
    within the drunkness of a bottomless well?

    Is it to cry out to the whole world,
    spilling onto a poem or a canvas?

    Is it to still endure among those who say “in vain, all in vain,”
    and to scatter endlessly, even if reduced to ash?

    Is it to cling, involuntarily, to undeserving flesh?

    With every touch,
    with every inhalation of a scent,
    is it to search for age zero?

    And when your existence departs into desolation one day,
    is it the breath of the pavements you left behind in trust?

    Written by Aşur Horoz

  • Nutshell

    Nutshell

    I saw her in my dream after so long. I begged to be loved. I fought to be chosen. Knowing full well she preferred another. Inherited minds. Wet earth that hardens as it is squeezed in a palm. Hopes. Aircraft carriers. Genetic memory. Weak bodies capable of nothing but the struggle to exist.

    A river tainted with acid. My body dissolving within it. The sound of my bones snapping echoes in my ears. I hope that when I close my eyes, I might finally sleep. Drifting through a dream. Striving to be chosen. Loathing every facet of politics. Only to plunge into an acid-filled river. At the very first moment I am shed of unhappiness.

    Machines of metal, built to kill. Dreams obliterated with every blast. The trigger is easy to pull. The moments are hard to forget. Machines trampling over a graveyard. Technological scraps crushed under the word “defense.”

    I did not want to wake. I know that my dreams are the only moments I am free. There is no salvation. For the first time, I was this close to them. For the first time, I was rejected. For the first time, I was certain they had let me go. I questioned why I cared so much. Amidst all the people who have passed through my life.

    I refused. I left a great regret behind. Life within a nutshell. Dozens of sentences destined to end with an ellipsis… In desperate need of a full stop.

  • The Ocean of The Subconscious

    The Ocean of The Subconscious

    The mind, bearing the traces of millions of years of experience, is like an archaic heritage waiting to settle into the folds of our brain before we even step onto the stage of existence.

    This process, which begins while the individual is still a zygote, is shaped by the imprints left on the cerebral cortex by the external world. For some, this mind is a thick curtain that lets no light through but operates at the speed of light; for others, it is a transparent veil. In reality, it is encoded within clusters of information called neurons, formed by a synthesis of innate instincts and the external world, masking the emotions that reside in the limbic system.

    While emotion is a roar encoded in humans for millions of years, the mind has attempted to suppress this natural flow for thousands of years through the taboos brought about by socialization. Yet, no matter how much a human tries to cover it up, those deep-rooted emotions (sexuality, hunger, anger, etc.) find a way to emerge into the light, becoming encoded anew with each expression by merging with fresh experiences. These formations are never entirely “untouched”; within every good, there lies an evil, and within every evil, a good. This balance is directly related to what the individual brings from their past.

    The obstruction of this internal flow is carried out by structures called “morality,” which serve as a social dam. Elements of the superego—such as customs, culture, tradition, laws, and beliefs—are like a “complex of behaviors” built not to kill emotions, but to domesticate them and generate energy. However, the real problem lies not in the dam itself, but in who manages the floodgates and with what intention. Individuals establish these structures for social order; yet over time, these structures transform into independent authorities and begin to inhibit the natural flow of emotion with sanctions like “forbidden” or “sin.” Every suppressed emotion leads to mental blockages, maladaptive behaviors, and chronic physiological disruptions in the individual.

    In this subconscious ocean, encoded consciously or unconsciously by internal and external sources, much is hidden. At times, it escapes our control; at others, we express it exactly as we desire. In this context, those engaged in literature and art practice the art of expressing this subconscious. The most powerful tool man uses while externalizing these mental and emotional fluctuations is language. It is here that James Joyce emerges as a peerless example. Joyce possesses a linguistic anarchism that deconstructs language into its atoms, shattering linear logic—much like Van Gogh’s colorist roar in painting, which tears nature away from its objective reality and transforms it into an internal fire. In Van Gogh, we see an expressionism blended with his own unique subconscious world.

    Joyce and Van Gogh are the most concrete proofs of how social dams can transform into explosions of genius. Joyce reconstructed the static dams of the mind by passing them through his own internal black holes, creating a unique dynamic. Against the shallow waters that society deems “reasonable,” Joyce maintained his transparent existence by swimming in the depths of the ocean.

    The difficulty the majority faces in understanding Joyce, especially his masterpiece Ulysses, can be attributed to two reasons: first, the resistance of people with weak insight who cannot enter the ocean of their own subconscious; and second, Joyce’s lack of concern for being “understood.” On the contrary, he is an expressionist who lays bare whatever exists in his subconscious, provoked by both internal and external stimuli. In other words, he uses language through a stream of subconsciousness. Fitting an entire universe (Homer’s Odyssey) into a single day in Ulysses was only possible by moving away from the shallowness of the conscious world and transforming within the corridors of the subconscious. While the quest, fear, and desire to reach the goal in Homer’s Odyssey find their correspondence in the external world—lasting for years in a physical ocean—Joyce reconstructs this ancient adventure through the human stream of consciousness. Thus, he fits the entire odyssey into a single day within the ocean of the subconscious.

    Diving into these depths is an effort that can only be shown by those who are not afraid and are capable of swimming in the darkness of the ocean.

    written by Aşur Horoz