Like every child who lost his mother, I have a bitterness in me today. The pain of a deep wound is indescribable. While the wall behind me collapsed when my father left, my mother, whom I held on to not fall, no longer has white hair. Wherever I extend my hand, my palms hold space.
And I talk to my mother at length at her grave every time I go to visit.
I say it softly;
I miss being called mom so much. I am tired every day after you, I am stagnant and I am offended every time I miss you, my mother. You're gone, but I wish I could make my heart believe. Maybe then my will to live will sprout again in my orphan heart.
My mother, you have been absent since the day you left in the first breath I added to the day. Everyone said that it gets ashen in time, for the pain of being without you. My lied mother. Like the dark solitude of the night, in my dreams, like the first slap of the day, I experience the sharp pain of your absence in the morning. Maybe even a wound that is getting more painful day by day, bled by a knife stuck in my back and bleeding thinly day by day.
I take pictures of my life every day. I'm just taking a look. I have a frame with the best techniques used, no expense spared in materials, and a lively decor. But you know, it never gets clear, it's always a blurry photo. Because there is something missing. It is also a deficiency that cannot be filled with anything. What photographer can replace the warmth of a mother…
I am a life traveler who drinks the pain of being without you, even though it hurts me. Death is a wildflower that has abused my feelings for you. And my longing is the salt that has been imprinted on my unhealed wound with all its pain.
Your pain fell into my heart like a drop of dew. But my heart couldn't even take it, couldn't bear it, how many springs passed since his sudden death, time stopped, mind stopped, the world stopped, time turned back while sitting at his bedside.
You know, mom, sometimes you're the most enjoyable book I've ever read. You know, when I read a book, I go into that world and get lost. If you only knew how much I enjoy reading your novel. I always wonder about the ending of your books. I don't like this book. In fact, while I was praying that I would never read the last pages, I looked at the last page. Feelings of rebellion are rising inside me. Unfortunately, I can't scream the ache stuck on the tip of my tongue.
Because the author of the book is a unique author. And he writes our lives. No matter what we say or do, I know that all books end the same.
It's not the protagonists' ability to decide whether the book will be thin or thick. Out of the necessity of respecting the author, I bow my head and try to accept the fact that the book is finished.
The protagonist is dead, but his place in the heart he clings to is intact.
I am a life traveler who drinks the pain of being without you, even though it hurts me. Death, on the other hand, is a wild flower that has abused my feelings for you and named it longing. And my longing is the salt that has been imprinted on my unhealed wound with all its pain.
This must be what is called mother's love. Even though my tongue is silent right now, she screams “mom” with tears flowing from my eyes piercing my heart.
But life goes on, mother. Everyone is growing, and I am coming to you step by step.
Goodbye for now, I will go to my father to sit down and carry your greetings to him in my heart.
Let me tell you, I will go and remember, I dance with words because of my job, but among thousands of words, people realize that the most beautiful word in the language and in the mind is 'mother'.
Before I drown in these feelings, I say, friends;
The mother is a ball of glazed feelings as deep as the heavens and in which thoughts and feelings fuse and bubble like the stars of the heavens and flow here and there like bubbling lava rivers or underground streams. Yes, she is at peace with joys and sorrows in harmony with her bittersweet destiny. those who do not have expectations, do not set their hearts on their offspring by hanging on to expectations. It is such a monument of loyalty and compassion whose nature is crystallized by divine morality; Neither the hardships he suffered, his sweating in the apocalypse, the fact that he collided with the vast seas and rested on his throat, nor that his son's disloyalty blew like a wind and engulfed his soul, causing him to experience the most bitterness of foreign lands, cannot bring him to his knees and make him say "give up".
Yes, it must be quite difficult to explain how their sincerity always remains so deep, their sincerity continues uninterruptedly, their hearts always overflowing with love, their gaze pouring into us with the promise of relevance and trust, and how they are filled with such eternal and eccentric feelings even though they grew up in the valleys of bad and low.
