It’s been a long time, my friend.
It’s me, always me, basking under the eternal moonlight of the life’s so-called mysteries. Chasing the time, not in the literal sense though, more like tripping over my own feet on every three steps or so, and trying to get up, get up, and get up, over and over again. Just to grab something that’s far out-of-reach and to hold on every little hope like dear life on my way.
But once in a while, there are clouds. Enourmously underrated, magazine-cover quality, too fictional to be true, those purple clouds. So purple that makes you wonder? How was it again? Reality?
Once in a while, there are steam-boats, too. Relieved from the faceless crowd of rush hours. Carrying handful of passengers to enjoy the rare outburst of the sun on such fortunate winter days. Then, there is İstanbul. A thousand-year-old child. My worn-out, delicate yet strong İstanbul. So old and still full of life, and what’s more beautiful than that? Still shy from the welcoming sun though, centuries after centruies, chasing the fog out of his sleep-deprieved eyes, just awoke from a long-forgotten dream. A dream of an age where the heavy golden curtains of the palace opened to the thousands of boats in the Bosphorous. Princes and princesses alike running in the gardens without a fear. A dream of a city, behind the walls: streets buzzing with all-too many voices of unique melodies, mixed with spicies and hot meals. A dream, the old-kid forgot but reminded on such days, where the sun bathes the earth with dusts of hope and the Hagia Sofia and Sultanahmet quietly whisper to each other, in a long expired language tales of all kinds of people, incredibly beautiful in their own unique ways. A dream so vivid that İstanbul loses its reality. How was it again?
Yet another time, there is melancholy. Such a greedy little monster, isn’t it? Feeding on the battles you lost and the battles you never dared to fight. The battles you thought you won, but never fought at all. Best served with rain-soaked tunes all the way from Aegean Sea. Friends, long forgetten, newly lost, ones you can never be with … no matter how hard you try. Memories, you never forget, freshly aching, random outburst of happiness, too. Too many movies, not enough books. The things you never knew. Like: To love in the long cold mornings of St. Petersburg. A defeated matador in a hellishly hot Spanish summer. A woman singing a sad tune, a tribute to the lost children of the wars all over the world.
And then the forest. The soothing touch of the green. That magical tune came all the way from Prague, from the tiny streets of Old Town, telling the tale of the Golem and Rusalkas. It is not that hard to imagine: on an ordinary Tuesday night, getting home from work, thinking about what you should cook for dinner, and all of a sudden, you realize that you have never seen somewhere that fascinating, greeted by the hundred-year-old trees in that simple road you take everyday. It all comes in a rush, the rain, the green, the melodies and you are left wondering. How was it again? The reality..
dream a little dream 