Category: Free

I’m doing nothing. Just watching. I’ve always felt like a stranger to the chaos unfolding around me. While people constantly try to destroy each other, I sit here trying to destroy myself—what could I possibly be losing?

Since childhood, I never wanted to be part of anything. The illusory reality I live in inside my mind has made me drunk. Maybe that’s why I don’t get along well with people.

By claiming that I love solitude, I’m lying to myself. Loneliness is pain. Loneliness is the greatest crime. At every moment, I kill myself, only to be reborn from my pitiful corpse. I tremble with the echo of silence in my ears.

I love thinking… until I no longer have the strength to do anything else. Most of the time, no one understands me. I don’t even try to explain. I hate explaining. I listen to people; I try to ease their burdens. I think I’ll feel happy once I solve their problems, but instead, I get more attached. I’ve started to accept that I will never be happy.

Hoping to find happiness elsewhere, I throw myself outside. The laughter of others disturbs me. The screams inside me only grow louder. I’m certain I’ll never find peace beside anyone, and that I’ll never be able to let myself go.

My stillness, mistaken for laziness, has started to be admired by everyone. While the hatred in my eyes becomes more visible, people have stopped looking into them. I find it strange to be such a passive link in the collective memory and yet still carry so many reference points.

I’m sure I am nothing. Every time I stay silent, I’m forgotten. I enjoy the pain of being forgotten. Just like being erased, being forgotten is also a beautiful thing. I want to remind the voice in my head—this voice that claims to know my body—of this, but I never succeed.

When I look back at my life through inaction, I see countless forgotten memories. My favorite memories always stem from the stillness I’ve romanticized in my own subconscious. When people ask me to talk about my past, I just stay silent—because I don’t want to share the many manipulated memories I’ve internalized. I am not so desperate as to create people who will become part of my life by sharing my past with them.

I’m trapped inside the thoughts constantly circling in my mind, and I can’t escape them. When I close my eyes, I can’t sleep because of the world that comes alive. I remain motionless among imaginary characters who are always running around. Against a living world, I feel far too dead.

A painting, forgotten in a corner—perhaps even abandoned. No one even glances at it; its frame is rusted over. The painter didn’t even bother to give it a name, as if it wasn’t worth the effort. The painting screams… it cries out… its only wish is to be seen by someone who will truly value it, to belong to someone who can recognize its beauty. Like everyone else, it longs to be understood; like everyone else, it burns silently to be noticed. Its colors are dark, untouched by light, dependent on the beam set up solely to illuminate the painting beside it. Why did no one love it? Why did no one ever deem it worthy?

The shapes on the canvas are blurry, as if it were a test board used to try out brushes—no one even made an effort to draw upon it deliberately. Just splashes of color, mixed together to find the right tone… Didn’t those who did this feel any shame? Should we begin to doubt the eyes of those who failed to see the light it holds? Perhaps the value we give to objects shifts according to our capacity to romanticize them. Why has no one ever looked at it with romantic eyes? Why has no one surrendered to the thoughts it awakens? Why… when there is but one thing that truly deserves to be romanticized, have people written poems about so many others?

We have become entirely numb in the face of injustice. We are trapped in such inertia that we struggle to escape, desperately clinging to stagnation. Our minds, turned into the hell of sameness, extinguish the idea of revolution before it even takes shape. Why have we grown so passive? Why do we appear so utterly inept as a society? Why, having once soared to the skies, do we now fear the unity of the ants beneath the earth? Our sense of wholeness has been reduced to mere individuality, making it harder than ever to achieve anything together. We have regressed from a generation that stood tall in defiance to a hunched-over macaque monkey.

Humankind is a social creature, yet this status has now been reduced to a herd of amoebas sipping coffee in cafés. Grand words are spoken, only to be forgotten within a minute. After all we once achieved through unity, we have been lulled to sleep by the flickering glow of foolish little phones. And so, in the silence of the night, we awaken to regret, dreaming of the things we will do the next day—only to become sleepwalkers, drifting aimlessly through the daylight. We choose sleep to escape our thoughts. Sleeping has become our new normal; we yawn through the day, and our happiest moments are now those of utter uselessness.

When did we start bowing to authority’s decisions without question? When did we shrink so much as human beings? Since when do we tremble at the thought of speaking a single word? Since when did we begin hoarding the truth, keeping it to ourselves? Since when have we lived in perpetual humiliation? Perhaps we have always been cowards; perhaps our knees buckle because we have always been willing to kneel; perhaps our hunchbacks are the result of our habit of submission.

Isn’t it time to put an end to this?.. Isn’t it time to lift our bowed heads once more?.. Isn’t it time to raise our voices, once silenced by fear?.. Isn’t it time to reclaim our humanity?..