Hey, I'm Hazal (f. Turkey). I like art, museums, exhibitions, sweet things, beige, curly hair, my dog "Pebbles", Josh Keyes, books, robots, power napping, buying stuff that i will never use, adam apples, colorful clothes and music. I hate getting up early, cars, desserts, dark, zits, nescafe, coiffeur, spoiled ego. I'm random and you're here randomly. So it's ok.
“Every adult life could be said to be defined by two great love stories. The first - the story of our quest for sexual love - is well known and well charted, its vagaries form the staple of music and literature, it is socially accepted and celebrated. The second - the story of our quest for love from the world - is a more secret and shameful tale. If mentioned, it tends to be in caustic, mocking terms, as something of interest chiefly to envious or deficient souls, or else the drive for status is interpreted in an economic sense alone. And yet this second love story is no less intense than the first, it is no less complicated, important or universal, and its setbacks are no less painful. There is heartbreak here too.”-Alain De Botton
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
I see you changing girl
From Day to Day
Impressed by and trying to imitate
Those who are older
Those who are colder
Suddenly embarrassed by your age
Our bigger blessing, girl
Is being young
The power of not knowing
Where you belong
I try so hard to keep it
Not to lose that secret
Waiting for someone like you
To come along
Maybe it was me
That made you old
Stole whatever it was that
Made you glow
A little touch of something
A lot of work for nothing
And now our heart, once open,
Will be closed
