Sociology isn’t a mixology. Is it? Mixing humans, taking the desired features from each couple, is an arduous task. Changing the will of God for the will of your worldly desires is a dangerous thing, building a community outside of anyone’s will is a very serious task to consider. It is like the analogy of stealing a bike. The person who wrote that analogy down knew well that God wouldn’t answer his prayers when he wanted a bike, so he stole one and asked for forgiveness.

A black man married a white woman, a white woman married a black man. Although they meet their ends by marriage, they both had different dreams. The black man dreamt of a daughter like her, fair as golden wheat fields when the white woman dreamt of a son like him, dark as cacao seeds. Eventually they both had a different dream otherwise they would never engage in each other’s life. They would not confess their love. They would stick to people of their kind. If the black man desired a black son, he would stick to a black woman, and if the white woman desired a white daughter, she would stick to a white man.

Narcissus was interested in his own image. Corruptor was interested in destroying someone else’s image. Both ways are extremely dangerous.

The danger is always under the question of whether you find someone who compliments your weaknesses or improves your strength. In the fundamental it is about whether you both love eating a banana or if one of you doesn’t like it at all. If you both love a banana, from shops you will more likely buy bananas and eat bananas together. But if one of you doesn’t like a banana, there comes a separation when the interests do not match. Or does it? It may also be that what you don’t like is what your partner loves. In that case, there is a perfect chance of distributing things based on the likes and no one will be offended. Maybe she likes pickles when you hate them. And when both are offered you will give your portion to her to make her feel happier when she will give you her banana to make you feel satisfied. In this way you face no danger even when you do things differently. She loves the soft part of the bread and you love its crust. You share equally without a waste.

The question of finding someone like you or different unlike you is always a serious question. This is the core of how you build your community. If it is too similar can be a conflict or if it is too different can also be a conflict. Things we fear can make us feel in love and the things we love can make us get scared. Mixing races or sticking to your kind/race. Mixing cultures or sticking to your way/standards. Mixing is a challenging task, not every mixologist can shuffle right amount of liquids altogether to create a perfect drink. How much harder it is to mix human liquids! One cocktail can make you feel in heaven when the other can turn your day into a nightmare. How hard of a task it is to choose a partner! And I am not a good judge, I am a good forgiver.

In my plot, the situation is like the English and Turkish in my head. There is a constant conflict of power in between them. They have different strengths and weaknesses. They resemble different colours, shapes, and norms in my mind. They have difficulties in expressing different means. In Turkish love is dramatic, complex, based on a deep meaning, and private. In English love is expressing your emotions directly, courageous but fancy, and public. The more language I learn the more I become but I am also divided, like empires. Unless these two languages collapse into one another naturally and form a unified cultural identity, how else can it be resolved? Only a romantic story of a couple can help me overcome my strained feelings…

In my writings, I am the authority. I really am. I decide on things, and I apply them in my life. All my writings are a life changing experience for me as an author, they are my own invocations. And so, my lover should be my perfect reader. She should get what I am thinking. An aware bonding and a mind reading skills are required. She must be a prophetess without knowing she is one, otherwise, she would look too arrogant. Do you get what I mean? I hope I don’t sound arrogant when I say these because I am asking a lot. I know I am asking a lot. I question everything on a regular basis and fit them into the narrative of my mind. Only this way I can be playful against the destructive side of life.

My lover must end my writings, period my plots with her blood. She must teach me to live together. As a result, I confess that my plot needs a professional mixologist. She must be my editor, not in the sense of fixing my writings. She must touch my heart and change my cold and distanced narrative from seeking her in these pages to feeling glad, warm and close to being with her. Do you know how hard that task is? Do you understand how thick the icy walls are between me and the society I interact with? Only a successful one can become the successor. She has to steal my heart by piercing the ice then ask my forgiveness out of her courtesy. Then I will start sharing our dreams in my pages instead of my own.

For now, my dreams are all written down for her to master me. If she reads what I wrote, she can trace me fully to find what I hid, my tressure/my heart. She can be my inspector. She can be my scientist. She can be my cardiologist. Mixing all the hints and clues all together to get me by tricking my heart with love, using my bait to her advantage to catch me with the same bait I am using to find her. In the end, the food I am attaching to the end of the fishing rod is the food I love to eat.

Only this way, she can have a word over me. She can create anything she wants to be, like an author. From all my books it is clear what she has to be. All freedom is given to her. The will to create her dangers through an oath of our love will be our adventure if she is creative. In the end, having a relationship is a dangerous mission. A lifetime hardship. A fellowship. It is to drink from the same chalice of love, respect and loyalty. Sharing secrets in virgin lands of the world, manifesting our truthful love in special ways. Mixing our sexual liquids, forming a new life. It is a serious task, this creation of us. The plot is our sociology, building a family that is free from all the wills of others. That serves only to us. This story we write and share with the world is a drink of life, Sucan. She is our children, and you are my taste in life. Your coming to me is my most beautiful social change. From isolation to your company.

I had more steps than an average man on earth. If only we all tried to step just a step more than the average man on earth, soon we would reach speed of light in our walks altogether. However, it is impossible. Kingdoms rise until a break point. Then they collapse. The rise is thanks to their slow progress, one more step a day. The fall is when their progress reaches to its maximum.

Protecting our borders are as crucial as expanding our world view. The greatest traveller has no home, greatest writer has no reader. If one wants to be a famous writer, one must become the average, not the best. The catchiness of the normal as a norm. This is how one can be read. The average person is as rare as the best person, only one person can be in the middle, others must be on the average person’s left or right slightly.

I am not the average person, nor the greatest or worst. When it comes to defining my position, I can only say, “I am here”. My hierarchy is geoid for I live inside this world. Unless the conditions change, it must stay like this. I must stay inside the earth. This is a limit. The greatest traveller must walk outside the world, must walk between planets, must walk between galaxies, must walk between universes. All I can do is I can walk in between universities. My border is from Atatürk University to Göttingen University so far. This is how much steps I expanded myself, but also limited myself. I could always go one step further. I could also go one step closer. Staggering!

One step closer to the truth of walking is the realisation of how ordinary of an act it is. As normal as for a worm to crawl, for a bird to fly; we walk.

In fictions, the wise is a wizard with teleporting skills. In the reality of a walker, wisdom is about not teleporting. In today’s words, it is the choice of walking instead of driving. The more you choose to walk, the more you become a walker.

He dropped the coin into the jukebox. “Herkes Gider Mi” by Beşiktaş Çocuk Korosu, from Cem Adrian album. The dialogue from the music echoed inside the pub:

Person 1: Are you still alone?

Person 2: Just free.

Person 1: So, are you unhappy?

Person 2: Just used to it.

Person 1: What about in love?

Person 2: Just incomplete. What about you, are you still waiting?

Person 1: Waiting is as pointless as singing the most beautiful song in the world to someone who cannot hear.

Person 2: What about hope?

Person 1: Hope is as difficult and impossible as describing a rainbow to someone who cannot see.

He chugged his beer down the throat, squinted his eyes to the barkeeper. With his burnt throat, he made a sour face. In a silent voice, “one more” he said. Barkeeper answered, “Enough for today, you must head back home buddy”. He asked, “Does everyone leave”? Barkeeper misunderstood his philosophical question and responded, “Everyone left already. We are alone”.

He: Have I you?

Barkeeper: I am tired, don’t make the night hard.

He: Am I used to you?

Barkeeper: You are only drunk.

He: Am I not sober enough to realise I am alone? You still are my bartender.

Barkeeper: Do you hear me buddy?

He: One more, please.

Barkeeper: Can you even see me?

He: I promise to visit and see you again tomorrow.

Barkeeper poured them a glass of her favourite afterwork cocktail.

They drank together. One more usual cup than a day before.

He staggered to his left and right ever slightly until he went back home. His unsteady fingers danced inside his pocket before finding his keys. Each clink and clang made him remember the chorus’s symphony.

He could not remember other important bits like how he got back home, how he got in, how he was naked, how there was an unknown woman in his bed.

He thought to himself, “I think I just found teleportation” before losing his consciousness and fully collapsing onto the floor.

(This is the story of an alcoholic.)

The next day, the mysterious woman in his bed left his house in fear. The barkeeper didn’t see him. There was a smell of death in the streets. The neighbours called the police after a month. They broke in and found his dead rotting body. Buddy.

And I had written a word more than yesterday.

And you had read a word more than yesterday.

And we had cried two more tears than yesterday; one tear from the left cheek and the other from the right cheek has staggered.

We fell into the silence still hearing the music in our ears as if our remorse is talking to us.

Our heart. It staggers.

I had more…

I had one more…

I had no more…

Mind

May 2048

The short journey of my mind began here at this present moment, just after the spring flowers have blossomed. Such a sunny day. Such a lovely day. Does it mean sun is love and sunny is lovely? In this exact moment, yes. A moment later can be a strong no. In my today, it might be sunny, but in your today, it might be a rainy day.

It is 16:48. I stopped traveling to write about my journey. Sitting on the chaise-longue, sipping my cold drink. Wondering after my first exploration of the area. Excavation. Burials. History at this moment. Is writing part of my journey? Is taking photographs while traveling part of your journey? Or is your camera blocking the view? Hard to tell, huh?

Is this cup I am holding, the clothes I am wearing… The glasses… My laptop is on my lap, I am writing. Are all these yokes limiting my view of life? Heavy is the burden. Which of us can really live? I, myself, am mostly observing how others live. How the woman on my right walking on the sand is trying to avoid the rocks! She must look down because she is a cautious person. Even the rocks she is not carrying are limiting her view. Imagine now, how limited our view about life is! How I have to miss your point of view to live my point of view, and this is just mental. For someone, the bare breasted woman feeding her baby daughter next to me would be offensive. She is my wife. Crazy right! I am topless, sunbathing here on this beach and my wife is doing the same. Our daughter is butt naked. We could be butt naked, too. We just didn’t prefer it today. Would you prefer to sunbath naked? This is your point of view whether you agree and join us or not!

What is equal is not the fact that I and my wife can be topless together on this beach. Equality is “sun is love at this moment”. In another space and time, it may be rain and love. For you, it might be a hijab is love. The fact that we can live without thinking if we can live “like this or that” is equality. One day, I may walk on the beach with my shirt on and my wife might be topless. This is just.

I know there would be people bothered by my phallus swinging around when I walk naked. As if my arms are not swinging also. This is their limit. To some other the limit is when a hijab woman shows her ankles or a piece of hair. Who decides on these limits if not us? I would not judge someone’s limits, in the end, we all have different limits. Today, you may try to cover my body, tomorrow you may try to reveal it. We all desire to control. That is natural. It is also natural that we can’t decide whether it will rain today or not. All I see is a bright sky. You can never control my mind. I can never control yours.

What I can clarify is that I will block you if you block me. See, you are reading me instead of looking at the horizon. Unless you look at the horizon, you only witness my words. This is the whole problem in life: Looking at other people’s lives when we should be living for our own lives.

Is looking part of life? We both know communication is part of life; reading is part of life. Your being bothered by my phallus is part of life. Fight Club. Never seeing my phallus is also part of life. Again Fight Club. It all depends at this moment. And with this story our minds are as cloudless as the sky. Sky is love now. Think! This is the sharp end.

Ms Müller is in Göttingen’s central library, doing her daily task of studying. It is her daily bread.

Ms Müller is traditionally liberal. She wants to choose her lover, but she doesn’t want God to choose her. She wants to have a good heart of loving every being except God. She loves animals and so she is vegan. She loves people, so she is not a cannibal. Hence no partaking in Christ’s body is written in her law. Sometimes she is nicely clothed with sheep wool. Other times, she is acceptably naked.

She kisses her cat when he scratches her arms. She cleans his mess, like his pee on her bed or his poo sand. She also brushes away his fur. Yet, she, as an independent woman, does not like to do the same to her lover. She would disgust herself if her lover left the poo in the toilette or left the hair in the sink. Her disgust is not from the dirt, it can’t be. It is from not trusting men. All men is corrupt in her eyes, they are sinners and do what is wicked. Even Jesus was a sinner, the way he made people drink alcohol was one of her problem and he drank it himself when it was commanded in the law to not drink it. The law could not be changed because God was perfect and his law was perfect, too. She would never trust Jesus’s teaching when Jesus taught her to turn the other cheek or walk a mile more. What if the person to turn the other cheek was her raper. She was raped in her past by a drunkard. Why should she walk with her raper ever more. When it comes to forgiving, Ms Müller would only forgive herself and her cat. She would never forgive her raper.

She is so liberal, she doesn’t want any children, but she would like to have more cats in her household. She would rather turn into an animal than having a strong connection with her lover. What did her lover do to her?

She would read books to free herself from patriarchy except when she reads the verse from Qur’an telling her “to read”. At that moment, to rebel against the masculine order, she would choose ignorance. So, she would not continue reading it. She would only imagine about possible prophetess.

Ms Müller is a free woman: She rejects it when someone offers to help her. She is the art of saying “no” when her lover wants her to say “yes”. Jesus’s saying always “yes” is such a red flag. Proposing to her is an impossible task. She is not like men either, she would never propose to her lover by putting her dignity under her lover’s feet. No. She is at the top, at the throne, and she isn’t leaving there unless she wants to go to a summer holiday with his dad’s money. Sometimes she is daddy’s girl and sometimes a rich bastard’s girl. The bastard makes her dream come true and she screams to the bastard, “Yes, daddy! Own me”. However she would not trust God’s promise if God told her to make all her dreams come true in heaven. She had enough with that lie. She can be a bitch, but she would never be a believer. She would swim in the sea fully naked and let sun touch her nips and lips. Nonetheless, she would never want God to shine over her. She is not stupid, she is her/shey. She knows God does not exist, she knows her identity is a fluid. She is a melting chocolate under the sun, exciting people with her lust.

Ms Müller knows she is the only punisher. She punishes all with her hard work.  She is intelligent, punctual, and responsible. She is in a disciplineship, not in a discipleship. She thinks God is not punctual, His time never comes. She also thinks her diamond ring is not affected by the change. Unlike her diamond she changes. She uses many beauty products to cover the change because she is angry with aging. She never likes to think about the death. She tells her scientist friends to find eternal youth. She wastes her time in the artificial world, like social medias, but she never likes to pray. If she has to think to wish, she wishes religions to die. She praises human progress, especially the concept of a modern independent women, but then she also criticises everything human-made, specifically her female boss. Politics, arts, languages, orders, law, conventions, whatever you name it. They are not perfect for her. Nothing is enough for her. This imperfection is a result of not everyone being like her, and she thirsts for me because she wants to convert me, too.

The worst is when Ms Müller holds her tears to look tough but suffers depression in the recesses of her mind.  All her friendships are based on fun and travel. She never visits graveyards, she never remembers those she lost. She has no devotion, she only wills to try and liberate while herself is a slave to people with money. Even after she becomes one of the people with money, she is a slave to material wealth. She never likes the idea of being slave of God, Abdullah, but she is slave to her immoral thoughts. She is the opposite of whom Jesus helped. She is rich and healthy, this is her curse. In this material richness, she is ignorant to the spiritual wealth, Talha.

How wise Ms Müller is! She chooses being an active lesbian when God tells her to marry with a man and bear a child. Her future generation consists of only cats. Her lover changes daily like cats. Depending upon the day, who makes her the most insecure and weak, she chooses her next prey. She is a liberal, she has rights to identify herself as a toilette paper. She resists until she wants to swim. When she is baptised nothing can be left from her. Like paper she dissolves. She doesn’t recycle, she doesn’t recover. She doesn’t like the idea of afterlife, but she is picky recycling plastics, glasses, and papers other than herself.

And I am sad for her. I cry for her. I am the absolute author, Furkan.

Ms Müller never hears. She is deaf. She liberated herself from others’ thoughts. In order to heal her, the whole world went silent. The words were gone, hence, religions were gone. There was no Word of God.

Do you hear Me?

Ms Müller is studying. The whole library is silent for her success. When there is no word to distract her from her work, she is the successful one. She feels safe to be part of this scientific community. She likes to live in this universal city, university. It is her heaven, and books are her angels. By studying, she is recovering from yesterday’s party. She doesn’t want to remember this party, what has happened there, as if she could even remember it when she was that drunk. She has a sober negligence to boost her focus. Her eye lids are heavy. In every story she read, lovers are dying for each other, but she will die for no one, and nobody would die for her. She must live for sustainable solutions when the nature’s sustainable solution will be to devour her corpse when she is dead.

Ms Müller doesn’t believe in death. She doesn’t like when people war, but she fights with anyone who isn’t a liberal. She doesn’t like missionaries, but she herself is a preacher of liberalism. She travels around the world, teaching others how she knows the best. She has the best grades in school. Of course, she knows the best. There could be no being better than her, not even God. She would convert mosques and churches into museums. She has the attitude of studying history to claim it is false. She also studies law to creates her own laws. She is, in that sense, colonial, but she doesn’t belong to the colony. She is a wolf among sheep. She is not looking for a shepherd, she is only looking for the alpha, the leader of the pack. Since she is a vegan, she has no omega. She has just her beta ideas that are meta. She follows the recent trends and shapes herself based on them.

I am her lover, and I witness against her. I am Mr Öztürk.

Ms Müller is conventionally liberal. She has her own flag, her own constitution. Her constitute is not prostitute, only cons. She is not a prostitute, but she is just polyamory. She does not own a brothel but travels to any hotel. She is a free independent woman, so she charges no one. Scissoring is her fetish, she likes to own other women with her perkier breasts. She gives no fuck because no women have dicks to fuck her. She never finished a puzzle in her life. Everything is incomplete, one thick piece is always missing. Her other half is lost which means she is fully lost. She can’t be one.

How can I wake her up from her eternal sleep?

Ms Müller is done with her daily bread. She is not hungry anymore, but she is surely tired. She is seeking emotional comfort while fearing it. Her mind is blurry and suicidal. There is no Jesus to heal her. There are only temptations of life, and she oscillates in between them. She imagines herself happy while working, she believes it to be true. She is wrong, she is not happy at all.

Ms Müller is looking at the beautiful view idly. The image is a void for her. How can I approach her when she doesn’t even see this beautiful view?

She is wearing blinkers to avoid eye contact. From whichever way my love is exposed, she would face somewhere else to avoid my eye contact. It is in her nature to avoid beings while claiming to love them. She is never satisfied with them. She is only offended when you praise her beauty. She always finds and reveals the others’ mistakes. She feels superior by doing that. For her, I am a sinner, Jesus. She decides on my worth basing how much I can make her laugh.

I am no jester. I would serve her verily, doing anything I can, but I would not let her take my self-respect away. I could give it, but I know upon taking it she would leave me instantly.

I want to cry with Ms Müller together, out of love and compassion. Too loud laughs are for clowns, they carry no meaning. Contrarily, a real cry is the result of gratitude, not pain. The real cry is priceless. How could she be this grateful when she had her make up on? She wouldn’t dare to cry just because she wouldn’t want to waste her make up. Her mascara could run, she would not want that.

I could clean her hairy armpits, wash away her period blood, apply natural oils over her hair, kiss her everywhere, carry her home… She would not want anything I could do. She would distance herself away from me the more vulnerable I get for her. This is a fear by her, not of losing but of winning. Too utopian, too fake to receive real love on earth. One night stands are helping her with her daily needs. She is not hungry. She studied. She is experienced. Which equals to she is not innocent anymore. When she is full, even the greatest food would make you vomit. Imagine missing the fruit of eternal life.

Ms Müller is gorgeous. More heavenly than any other being. She is playing with her fair hair inside the library, thinking. She is taking her coat off from her shoulders. She is serious and concerned. Can she realise her mistake and love me? Can we cry together on our previous mistakes and heal ourselves together? Is there a chance for us? If there is, she must leave her pride behind and propose me. If she agrees, I will wash her feet and lick the salty tears out from her cheeks. I will water her and our relationship every day, forever. She will be my Hannah, the grace from God.

Ms Müller avoids eye-contact. She is too tender and emotional in heart. She must accept her emotions to be real, and we will be together, living free from the chains of freedom. It is hard to change. All is well though. She doesn’t let others help her, her yoke is the heaviest. I am the only person to carry her yoke. This is what the spirit reveals. She sees it despite her blinkers. She can’t accept it, yet. She didn’t witness any spirit before. She only saw tough life. She had rich but soulless parents. She had everything except the spirit. Thence, she had nothing.

“We should cry together. This is love” is what is heard by our hearts. By weeping we must rejoice. “Give your worries to me and I shall bind you in love forever”. This is the promise.

“It is so hard” I said. “My palms are sweating. Why love is so impossibly hard. How in the impossible world we must find a possible way out? Why is the path so narrow and the bridge so thin”?

“Who can laugh when one must cry? All world must cry with her together. The cries are the ocean, and my love is the world”.

Ms Müller feared the spirit and she went out from the library, escaping from the presence of the ghost. She ran away from my silent speech. She wasn’t hungry enough to face love. If she could cry bravely, her blinkers would fall off. Her hearing would recover. She would hear my silent words. The spiritual would manifest itself in physical. Our lungs would be filled with rose smell. We would learn to taste the truth together. We still will when we leave our work behind and rest together. Maybe she didn’t hear my mute voice, she will be reading it. And after that is our new creation. We will make flowers blossom with our pure tears.

A small water bottle filled with water carries more information than any knowledge on earth combined. The bottle she did not let me pick it up for her will make her come to me when it is emptied. She will be thirsty enough to see the value of my tears. The value of Sucan.

May our tears bind Us forever.

Amen.