A Call For The Dead

All the words that remained unsaid
All the thoughts kept inside our heads
All the tears that are now being shed
Will not bring back the dead

Death isn’t only losing soul to the afterlife
Nor stabbing someone’s heart with a knife
It could be loss in a never-ending strife
Swaying on the screams of a fife

Sit down on your fragile knees
Hands in dirt, heart burnt, beating with no ease
All what you wish is for it to freeze
So you might finally feel that stormy breeze

Close your eyes, call for the dead
Never rest your mind that bled…
Every memory lived and died in your head
A call for the dead by the walking dead


Some times I wonder what is the purpose of life? Then I wonder again what is the purpose of death?

I see both are purposeless. Why did we ever exist in the first place?! 

I always unconsciously weave worst-case scenarios about us. None of them ends so well. Because each one of them is possible and that makes my brain bleed


I know we wouldn’t have survived what we’ve been through without you. I know that no matter what, you’ll always be the best person I’ve known. Sorry for being such a brick all the time, but it’s something out of my hand, mama. I love you. 

Suicide in Town

Hi again

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

First of all I don’t know who am I talking to because literally no one reads my blog as I want it this way except for the very few followers I had when I was really excited for making a blog. This is how most things to us I guess, get excited, uninterested and then dead.

Anyways, the big news of today is the suicide of a boy in my age in my town. I kinda knew him as we were together in 3rd grade. But that’s not how I remember him of course. I remember him because, in 3rd grade, we had a fight. I don’t remember why and I honestly won’t bother to try to remember. All I remember is the razor he cut the left side of my face with. I didn’t know he had one so he cut me and I bled then.

I saw him again in my first or second year in college because he was a mutual friend. A friend of a dear friend of mine. We met, looked at each other in the eyes, and probably we both were thinking of the same thing, that razor cut. Surprisingly, I wasn’t mad at him when I saw him. I felt something of course but wasn’t mad at him. You know why? Because that was the last time someone sneaked on me. We learn the hard way, don’t we?

I told my friend about this when he took off, then my friend talked to me a little about his unfortunate life, starting with the divorce of his parents in a young age to their carelessness about him. Not too much information but I got the idea and one has imagination and can relate. We’re all made of the same blood and flesh after all. Maybe that explains why he was violent in a different way than we, kids, were.

So, as usual, people started gossiping and blah blah blah they started assuming things and talk about what they don’t know. That’s how people are, stupid fucks.

But one assumption that I could relate to, which is that he had depression. Still, not convinced that only depression can lead to suicide. I had (have) depression. Frankly, once I had depression that I felt my heart stings. I couldn’t breathe properly and felt my chest tightening, ¬†overloaded with unseen loads. But that did not, and hopefully, will not lead to such ‘decision’.

The thing that I really fear is void. It is not depression that kills us, it is the nothingness. It is the emptiness that tortures us. It is the void that really kills us. Void is what turns off our desire to live. To lose your purpose so you become purposeless. To try to work things out but nothing really is working. Progress stops. You live an ordinary life as your parents did before you and their parents did before them and as everybody did and does. When everything becomes so meaningless and the very few meaningful things are far away from your reach. To feel too exhausted to talk, explain, discuss or even look properly. When you stand observing everything and decide that nothing is worth intervening for. When you see people are copies from each other, nothing’s different. Same problems, same thinking, same shit. When you be good at predicting what would people do, say, think. Now, that is something makes you reconsider living.

At the end, he is dead, but the scar he caused me remains. Maybe that’s how he is going to be remembered. When I look at what remained of that scar after my face stretched and ¬†become egg face. Remembered by the one who he never saw but once or twice after 3rd grade. Twice in 10 years.

Now bye. See you soon. But don’t take that as a promise.