By Necip YILDIRIM
As if he was thrown into the space: uninterrupted darkness, no gravity. Far from all the stars. Hiding a boiling teardrop in the pit of his eyes. A woe had been knotted in his throat:
“I became nothing while striving for perfection. My curiosity did not recognize boundaries: Could not remain confined to a single field. Wanted to become a hero in every field that attracted my attention. To conquer all horizons, ruin all castles, capture all cities…”
Was he late? Was it yet early or the right moment; he had not noticed. Life, however, was no joke. The glittering sword of time was cutting his life up. Truth was merciless: Harsh and ferocious. Ambitions eternal, enthusiasm impatience. Greed enslaves; to yourself or to the others. He too had not yet saved himself from the conundrum of life:
“I am a wreckage of dreams started with excitement and left half-done. Not unfulfillment. Reliance on the capacity for achievement and running for new excitements. Once I formulated the beginning of something, I accomplished the end in my mind. An unquenchable appetite. Every work I initiated, had to be at the highest of perfection ever seen before: All or none. It had to be finalized at once. Or else, it would become boring.”
He was unable to make sense of it. It was not supposed to be so. The consequence could not simply come to nought. He was in the middle of a stadium; exhibiting best of his performance. The overflowing crowd were not noticing hem. He felt he was in a wrong place; was even sure of it. No! No! It could not be true. He could not wait his life end in this manner. He would utter, “Poets, painters, writers, heroes, champions, leaders, commanders…! I am one of your kind! Do you hear me?” and add:
“I tried to simultaneously accomplish multiple works; each of which should have been occupation of separate individuals. And achieve them in perfect way. I pushed my poor potential to the limits that it was devastated, wasted. Every time I look into the mirror, I ask myself in surprise: Is this man with the young countenance truly me? Whereas I feel ruined with all that burden and exhaustion. I could not smile to my heart’s content; being freed from the weight of all heavy goals I have shouldered. I could not take out burning shirt of responsibilities and leisurely lay down on golden beaches.”
He was so sure of the greatness of potentials inside him, that he even deemed it not necessary to unfold them. He had said, “…in any case…,” and done nothing. Whereas gold is shaped with fire and iron with sledgehammer. Human beings do not ripen unless burned with love. Leaning on the potential and residing in the comfort of “…in any case…” had spread the sheets of sloth on him. Heavy he had become: Cumbersome. Thus, ore had remained inside the heart of mountains. Undiscovered, unhammered:
“I was supposed to be Van Goh. Overshadow the Conqueror. My books were to be listed among classics. My oratory stir up, politics unite… I was to speak with seventy per cent of all human race in their native languages…”
To reach, you shall departure. Departure: to migrate from yourself. No light without burning. Is not the candle melting while giving light? All these thoughts were taking wings in his mind. The reality of his challenges getting even difficult would suffocate him.
“What happened? My eyeballs are boiled. Shoulders cramped. Pains exploding inside my head. The hunger of the poor has robbed my sleep, indifference of the rich my entire rest. Should I worry about deteriorating environment or ignorant voters? My above seventy tired father, or brothers in the grip of limitations should be of my concern? After all these, let me remember those who are desperately waiting their turn: My wife whose glance sticks into my heart like pangs of conscience and my children with innocent, often neglected, yet proud expression. Go ahead and add to all this around me, all what is inside…”
Welcome to the perfection table. Human means insufficiency. Weakness and deprivation. Compile all our instruments and equipment; five sense organs. That’s all…
Never! Never scorn your senses! Everything we got to know beyond these senses, do not we owe them to these senses? If all were about five senses, I would be as much in peace as animals. My consciousness was like the whip in the back of captives. Five senses: The servants carrying water to the consciousness.
Wasn’t perfectionism a divinization syndrome, an illness of becoming pharaoh?
“What can be done about it: Consciousness is a reflection of the perfection. Longing for eternity and divinity exist in every soul. If people had truly realized they would die, no one would care to move an inch in this mortal realm. All pieces of art scream the divinization or the divine. All is about preference. Can creation ever be expected from the limited? Ninety-nine names were required to express the Perfection.”
Well, how then ended all sufferings?
“And suddenly a door was opened. Such was written on it: Words! Since that day, I decided to melt myself down and pour into the words. Words… screaming, crying, slapping, imploring, execution, freedom, justice… and love!”
What do you want?
“No one would be aware of Jesus, lest his Apostles existed. No one would remember The Beloved unless his companions believed in him. I ask for brethren who would understand me. Companions to whom I can say “May my parents, my eyes be sacrificed for your sake!”
We participate to these prayers in the name of Him who heralded via His al-Mujeeb name that He would not leave any prayer unheard.
“Cannot be: A baby with no mother, a funeral with no attendees and a cause with no flag… Cannot be!”
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