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If Silence Could Speak

by Deli_kizin (6/6/2006)

If Silence Could Speak, It Probably Would Have Much to Say

Happiness embraces me carefully like a wafer-thin skin around my sorrow.


Rapidly a leaf in autumn awaits to be blown away, scared, tender. A silent sorrow.


A beautiful sorrow, silenced, passive, intens. Shredded, torn, words, which sound so majestically in the Dutch language. Only because no one uses them anymore. Maybe because very few still feel these words. Hence why I long for a language, which rushes through you, like sorrow pushes your mouth corners upwards with some trouble and a melancholly smile emerges, if your love pushes a buning arrow through the night, if you’re searching feverishly for words that are not, that role on your lips. Tingling softly on your tongue, touching your lips. A tongue in which sorrow and joy express so much with few words.


And where people surrounding you know a little of what you mean. Or in any case know to find the right words to evoke the idea that they understand you.


A serene sorrow and a love on my lips. A love for a man. Sometimes a boy, usually a man (or in any case am I a woman but usually a girl?) A love for a country. Maybe idealized, enormousy idealized, made beautifully with some metaphores. But a sincere love. And a love for a city to which I haven’t been to. Mysteriously, invitingly, attractively, inconcurrable, passionate, irrepressible.




Istanbul. The city upon which much has been written about, spoken, thought, dreamt, cried, sung. She makes me want to drink. Carelessly, unstoppable binging. Hit the beat! Is what I would like to say. To raise your glass surrounded in the smoke emerging from my cigarette overlooking the Bosporus. Pensive and nostalgically gazing in the distance until I feel the sensation to speak about my broken dreams, while the lights on the other side of the river intermingle and become one colourful mass. A scale of vibrant colours that would make Van Gogh speak words of appreciation. To speak of almost forgotten childhood memories, that you would rather forget totally. But I don’t smoke. And binging is not one of my favourite pastimes. I have done it twice. And twice I have said not to do it again. The second time round I really meant it, as if.


Almost forgotten childhood memories. You read them quite often in semi autobiographical psychological novels. I solely remember my parents playing Sjostakovitsch a quatre-main. But that memory even is too comfortable for such a semi-phylosophical, nightly monologue.


And whether there are lights on the opposite side of the Bosporus at the place I would be in my dreams, I do not know. For I have never been there. No, I have never been there. And then a silent sorrow fills me, on lips that speak a language which is unintelligible to most. Would I maybe understand the transparent love, who lets my beloved splash, better? And could I defy the pitchblack valley easily? If others understood me? Could it?




Oh well, wouldn’t all this sound better in Turkish? Like a gloomy song by Sezen Aksu? Wouldn’t a complete nation sing along quietly if it were sung by thát voice in thát language?

Or maybe loudly, to pretend they understand. They might probably do so as well.




I want the white between the lines to drip from desire. Dripping from desire to a city I haven’t been to, to the desire to know the abbys of my beloved, to the longing of a language I do not speak, but which has been pounding in my heart heavily for some time. The silence between the sentences, may it give way for desire. May the whiteness tell what the black has been trying to say. And may it listen, amazingly silenced.


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