People with no face
There’s a man I keep dreaming about for the last 1 week, and the strange part is that he never has a face. It’s always blurred, hidden, like the universe is keeping the reveal for later. But he has a smell—forest soaked in saltwater and a hint of baby chalk—and somehow that scent has become more real than half the people I’ve met in my life.
I catch myself thinking about him the way a child thinks about a secret: lightly, constantly, stupidly. I wonder how he takes his coffee, how his hair looks when he wakes up, what kind of food he orders when he’s too tired to cook. I wonder what his laugh sounds like, and what he looks like when something breaks him just enough that he laughs while crying. I don’t know why these details feel important.
Bir insanın hiçbir gerçeğini bilmezken,
tüm ayrıntılarını bilmek istemek nasıl mümkün?
Ve işin en tuhaf yanı şu:
Gerçek hayattaki kimse böyle bir merak uyandırmıyor.
Ama bu yüzsüz adam…
her gece geri dönüyor.
Belki rüya, aksi takdirde onunla karşılaştığımda benden geriye ne kalacağını bilmiyorum.
Is he a man that I created by my own subconscious or is it a man, my Mongolian shamanic side is hinting me to be ready. Sorular beni tüketecek, gerçeği bilme ihtiyacı en büyük açlığım, öğrenemezsem var olamam sanki. Cliche isn't it :)
Korea was the only place where this similar feeling of being exist in gray feeling made sense. When I got there, I kept climbing every mountains I see, as if I was trying to exhaust something inside me—grief, memory, fear, I don’t know. I visited every corner of that country like I was searching for an answer in the shape of a street or a stranger’s face. I always felt like there is something in there is calling me. And what surprised me was how I didn’t feel the need to adapt. Usually I am a chameleon; I blend in without effort ( the best one you can ever meet) But in Korea I didn’t. I stayed exactly as I am. Witty, sharp, observant, expressive. And nobody looked at me like I was too much. Tbh, they don't talk much.
People there move quietly, same like Japan and despite they hate each other, they are more similar to each other then they deny, but their inner worlds feel louder. They don’t show emotion, but their silence is far more honest than the exaggerated friendliness I see in Italy. I liked that, I like both. I liked how the country let me exist without explanation.
And the more I watched people, the more I realized how many live like ghosts—work, marry, have a child, turn the child into a trophy, die, call it a life.
I can’t live like that. I want chaos to be my order. I want to breathe like every breath is my last. I want to eat like hunger is a kind of worship, slowly taste on my tongue. I want to fuck like the first time, every time. I want to read like I just learned how to read letters in some 14th century peasant and doesn't skip even a piece of paper in the mud to be undiscovered.
I want my life to feel like something I chose, not something someone else expected from me. I WANNA LIVE IN LOVE, PAIN AND PEACE, the one I build.
In a black or in a white, not in the middle.
So this faceless man reminds me of the people I met in Korea, the ones who seem to have no face and no story, just a scent passing by you. A scent that pulls your curiosity in a direction you can’t control, like you need to follow it simply to understand the notes of lifes hiding behind it.
I am afraid that this scent will eventually lead me back to my own home. It smells like watching a sunset from a balcony in August, when there is always a small excitement building as my birthday gets closer. It smells like raki mixed with olive trees, like wet towels drying under the sun on rusty metal, a saltburn on my skin.
It is the smell of a cliff right next to the forest, waiting to be burned for another hotel’s landscape project.
