Most of the time, I am isolated from the outside world, a state of soullessness, the reason of which I do not know, covers my whole body. I feel my heart getting cold and the colors fading. I can't keep myself in line with the current community, I can't feel like I'm among them. No one can understand this situation, which I closed with my joy.
Most of all, I hate environments where I can be isolated. This disgust that I feel down to my bones disturbs me so much that I want to go away and graze goats in the highlands of my homeland and lie down in the meadow. This suffocating air is burning my lungs more than cigarette smoke, and it's poisoning my complexion.
I love my hair but the days when I'm isolated I hate them, I love my legs but the days when I'm isolated I hate them, I love chocolate but the days when I'm isolated I get nauseous when I eat it and I love my country but the days when I'm isolated I hate them to the bone.
This disgust for everything and my struggle with myself is getting worse day by day instead of calming down, I feel the fire on my nails; I need to close my eyes and cool off in the highland frost. As I try to hold back my anger towards all humanity, it spurts out from every opening of my pierced heart, unnoticed by the world.
As the days go by, I lose my sense of compassion, and my compassion is doubled, tripled, fivefolded in one part of me, as if it were some stupid joke from God. It's piling up so much on my back that if I break my hump, it'll all crash to the ground. When all those troubles start to spill over, I'll be dead. I will cry with laughter as I reach the sky and sit on one of those silvery clouds. My tears will spill on the cotton fields of Çukurova, my bloody tears will create pink cotton.
And I'll be so happy, like that day in the dark past when I ran screaming in the highland meadow
