The Circle

A dream at the borders of truth.

Consecutive flashes.

Endless wandering.

Scenes that has nothing in common.

An old fight.

A forgotten trip.

A mysterious smell.

An agonizing grief.

Then. Complete darkness. Seconds or ages of nothingness, followed by a light point. A point that expands gradually and spreads over the darkness.

The scene:

A black car flowing softly through the streets of a newly born dawn that is blowing cold magical gusts, filing the surroundings with tranquility and promising with salvation.

The frame closes up to focus on the softly flowing car. It is the farthest one can imagine of perfection. Its body is exhausted by scars here and there. But it flows in an uncaring serenity; a serenity never dragged down by the load of consequences.

The scene becomes a bit hazy and escapes the focus of my watching position. When it sharpens again, I see the passengers of the car walking out. That is when realization finally carved a narrow way through my consciousness. Those are me and my father. Only us walking into a café overseeing the Nile river and having no other guests. That is me and him without any clear signals specifying a certain time. It is a date in an undefined moment within the streaming existence.

We, actually they, get in through an old metal door. My father is holding his white paper and colorful pens fill the pocket of his sky blue shirt. I closed my eyes for a second and remembered how those pens did nurture my fantasies. How they inspired me of countless possibilities. How they granted me safety. How I always trusted that they are writing our destinies.

They chose a table and sat down. My father got out his lovely L&M cigarettes. A waiter appeared from nowhere. I ordered a cappuccino and he his beloved Turkish coffee. All of a sudden, I was conquered by an absolute certainty that an important conversation would take place. All our conversations are important, whether about music, politics, literature, philosophy or heaven. Everything runs ultimately into the same ocean.

Power — Freedom — Creation. That is his formula to change the world. I can’t remember a time when I was just child with him. No matter how back in time I travel, my memory sees nothing other than two adults engaging in fulfilling talks. He used to tell me: “there are no prophets; you are the prophet. Don’t seek truth, you are the key of truth, the purpose of faith and the soul of God. Never stop to wonder about the meaning; it is inherent in movement.”

I felt a determining message lies in what would be said in that café. But I heard nothing from my far position. I tried to focus the scene more and more, and through the wisdom-laden autumn trees, I finally saw them clearly, but there was no talk. Silence. I tried to read my father’s usual summary of what we said. I only found a wide circle on the white paper. I turned to them and saw the same look in their eyes. A peaceful look. A content, undesiring and smiling look to the flowing Nile and the far horizon.

A poem by my father:

Don’t believe in a straight line,

Life is but a circle.

Where you began, you end up.

Where you ended up, you begin.

An infant arrives, and a man crosses.

Clouds..Rain..

Rain..Clouds..

A tree dies.. A root extends.. Another is born..

So, walk your way. Write your poems.

And when you arrive, you would realize:

you always knew what you wanted;

you were there all the time.