Blog

  • 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

  • About Love

    About Love

    Love. Humanity’s greatest downfall. Harboring possessiveness within, it sinks into the mire of habit. Making no difference at all, it flows down the waterfall of intoxication, creating the proof of existence and inspiring boundless trust.

    Happy marriages. An extinguished candle. Selves clinging to an unclaimed life…

    Love. The greatest enemy. The smell of spoiled cheese, and the pleasure derived from that stench. Selves shrinking ever smaller… An egg dropping to the floor. Inside, a dead chick that yearned to live. That is all love is. Lived merely for the sake of possession, and denied as if to deceive death itself.

    Must one always remain a child? Or simply deceive oneself?

    Foolish Romeo and pitiful Juliet. You taught us to perish from our own blindness, to murder the self for the sake of possessing. You taught us to spill the rice in our hands to the ground, grain by grain, the turning of the wheels, and the meaninglessness in the ticking of a clock.

    Foolish me and pitiful you. Dragged along inside a circle…

  • Semicolon

    Semicolon

    Waiting, waiting, waiting. The erratic meaning of cigarette smoke. Pale lights in the silence of the street. Lost meanings reviving in the mind. The blurred reflection in the glass. A presence casting doubt on identity. That very moment where looking and seeing diverge. The ambiguity between sleep and wakefulness. The human is a stray dagger. In the diary of the dead. Oblivion is the only truth. Watching the unfolding events, alone.

    Which dead shall write? The one buried without a shroud. The one having lost the soil meant to be cast upon it. Wandering to find a shovel, only to become lost; semicolon… the helpless symbol of the paper. The most senseless grief of a years-long struggle. Living for nothing, simple as dying for a diary. As much as the meaning of life. As much as a soul. As much as the earth trodden upon at the end of wars fought in blood. As much as the semicolons defining this soil as a homeland;

  • The Burden of Belated Words

    The Burden of Belated Words

    I saw a mother at the classroom door. Downtrodden, yet just as hopeful. Watching her testament reflected in the glass with timid eyes. Inside is warm and devastating. The confidence within the hunched posture. Trying to crush the bitter burden of life. A face accustomed to denying the destiny it carved for itself. Sad, yet smiling. Reflecting what lies in the eyes, unable to hide it. A life tethered by a first cry after sacrificing one’s own existence for naught. Just a sentiment. The child is still small, unaware of most things.

    Sacrifice is often a cliché. The child does not understand. But it will. Time will pass while glancing sideways at the glass. An unstoppable momentum. Moments harboring deep regrets. Those words that never escape the lips. A heavy weight gathering in the heart. Those meaningless words that strike like lightning in an instant, yet are poured into speech only when all is lost. A reckoning that can never be settled, no matter what we do. A very heavy toll. If only some things were understood from the very beginning. If only throats did not have to bear the burden of belated words.

    Hours, days, months, and years. A long stride within time. A brief expanse of time occupying space within the fleeting time of the cosmos. The torment of silence. The wandering words of dreams. A multitude of words forgotten upon waking. Harboring the weight of life. The relentless fatigue of the vocal cords. Pregnant with only a mere whisper.

  • it’s time

    it’s time

    it’s that time again,

    leftover relationships 

    you know,

    the second-hand infertile chats.  

    sometimes you surrender

    to the role of foster child 

    with a shaved head

    of the space-filling ambience.

    the so-called thinkers’ ‘worthy’ invitations

    to their social circus

    and 

    their conceptual masturbation.  

    genes that can not find their names

    being sold on cheap tables

    or a value that has taken

    its name flies away 

    without finding a skin to land on.  

    full of androamoeba in around

    with confused identities, 

    and 

    marriage certificates in their hands.  

    to feel like drowning in

    genetically distorted meanings

    and the hymns of digital saints

    in the coldness of the keyboard.  

    the weight of the past left on a torn shirt  

    without a latch 

    hanging on an abandoned porch.  

    a world in where love is represented

    only in the body fluid,

    and whoever objects to this 

    doesn’t even belong in

    an unrecyclable rubbish dump.

    ‎ 

    taboos, 

    totems, 

    dogmas, 

    indulgences,  

    cultures, 

    and stale ideologies mingle,

    as if they are preparing

    for a painful new birth 

    to unknown hopes and problems.       

    ‎ 

    written by Aşur Horoz