Category: Free

  • 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

  • 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

  • I don’t know

    I don’t know

    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.

  • Awake

    Awake

    I awoke in the darkness of night. The world was so quiet. From afar, a baby’s cry reached me—could they be calling me? I run to help. The unfathomable darkness seems endless. Until now, I had never realized how vast my room was. My feet can no longer bear my body; I keep falling.

    I may have been betrayed once again. I try to scream, yet the hoarse sound that erupts after such a long silence claws at my ears, and I find myself repulsed by my own voice. I long to go back. I yearn to see. In that moment, I become painfully aware of how disturbed I am by the sound of my own breathing.

    I feel like a condemned man, willing to sacrifice everything just to be confined within a prison cell. I might be losing my mind. I can’t recall the last time I was so utterly captivated by the allure of a body. I refuse to accept a brightness in which kneeling is the only recourse.

    My eyes burn. I feel as if I were encountering light for the very first time. The sound of crying no longer comes from so far away. I never imagined that darkness could become my paradise…

  • Review of a Forgotten Painting

    Review of a Forgotten Painting

    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?